If my lady bid begin, Shall I say, 'No 'tis a sin'? If she bid me kiss and play, Shall I shrink, cold fool, away? If she clap my cheeks and spy Little Cupids in my eye, Grip my hand and stroke my hair, Shall I like a faintheart fear? No, no, no, let those that lie In dismal dungeons and would die Despair and fear. Let those that cry They are forsaken and would fly Quit their fortunes. Mine are free. Hope makes me hardy; so does she.