Who made thee Hob forsake the Plough, and fall in love? Sweet beauty which hath power to bow the gods above, What, dost thou serve a shepherdess? Ay, such as hath no peer I guess. What is her name who bears thy heart within her breast? Sylvana fair of high desert whom I love best, Oh Hob, I fear she looks too high, Yet love I must or else I die.
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