( 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.