In time of yore, when shepherds dwelt
Upon the mountain rocks;
And simple people never felt
The pain of lovers' mocks;
But little birds would carry tales
'Twixt Susan and her sweeting;
And all the dainty nightingales
Did sing at lovers' meeting;
Then might you see what looks did pass
Where shepherds did assemble;
And where the life of true love was
When hearts could not dissemble.

Then yea and nay was thought an oath
That was not to be doubted;
And when it came to faith and troth
We were not to be flouted.
Then did they talk of curds and cream,
Of butter, cheese, and milk;
There was no speech of sunny beam,
Nor of the golden silk.
Then for a gift a row of pins,
A purse, a pair of knives,
Was all the way that love begins,
And so the shepherd wives.

But now we have so much ado,
And are so sore aggrieved,
That when we go about to woo
We cannot be believed.
Such choice of jewels, rings, and chains,
That may but favour move;
And such intolerable pains
Ere one can hit on love,
That if I still shall bide this life
'Twixt love and deadly hate,
I will go learn the country life,
Or leave the lover's state.