The ring's no more than parcel-gilt;
Folly to pretend it!
The cup is cracked, the milk is spilt;
Crying will not mend it;
Here's a pill you cannot sweeten;
Here's a frosted cake you've eaten;
A penny, and you've spent it.

Though they tie you to a cart
And whip you through the city,
He who never gave his heart
Will never give his pity;
Dry your tears; admit your error;
Kiss your mouth within the mirror;
Thank your stars you're pretty.

Mary, you have made your bed
Out of briars and withies;
No one lies where you are laid
For a score of prithees;
Pillow stuffed with stinging nettles
Harsh as adamantine metals
From the devil's smithies!

Mary, wait another year;
Turn your mattress over;
You shall see it change, my dear,
To a field of clover:
When the first hour of April opens —
Look, my lass, I'll lay you tuppence —
You shall find a lover.