( The Head speaks. )
Oh that the footstool I might be
?Whereon my darling's feet are set;
Though she should sore betrample me,
?Never would I complain or fret.
( The Heart speaks. )
Oh that the cushion I might be
?Wherein her pins my darling sticks!
Though she should stab and prick at me,
?I would rejoice in stabs and pricks.
( The Song speaks. )
Oh that the paper I might be
?Wherewith she curls her sunny hair!
Then all that lives and breathes in me
?In whispers to her ear I'd bear.