Blogs and book

S. (aside)._ 'Tis strange, and I too love the sad ones best.
_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Ay, how they clap him!
'Tis as who should say,
Sing! we were pleased; sing us another song;
As if they did not know he loves to sing.
Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow
On Sunday in the church is half so sweet;
But he's a hard man.
_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Mark me, neighbours all,
Hard though he be--ay, and the mistress hard--
If he do sing 'twill be a sorrowful
Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish
Your own time would come over again, although
Were partings in 't and tears. Hist! now he sings.
_Young farmer sings again._

'Come hither, come hither.' The broom was in blossom all over yon rise;
There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood.
'We shall never be younger! O love, let us forth, for the world 'neath our
eyes,
Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair is her youth and
right good.'
Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that never yet went into words;
While lovesome and moansome thereon spake and falter'd the dove to the
dove.


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