THYRDE MYNSTRELLE

  Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere,
  With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe,
  Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere,
  Beerynge uponne hys backe the riped shefe;
  Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte;
  Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte;

  Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie,
  Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde;
  When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die,
  Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde;
  Thann, bee the even foule or even fayre,
  Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care.

  SECONDE MYNSTRELLE

  Angelles bee wrogte to bee of neidher kynde;
  Angelles alleyne fromme chafe desyre bee free: 
  Dheere ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde,
  Yatte, wythout wommanne, cannot stylled bee;
  Ne seynete yn celles, botte, havynge blodde and tere,
  Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of womanne fayre;

  Wommen bee made, notte for hemselves, botte manne,
  Bone of hys bone, and chyld of hys desire;
  Fromme an ynutyle membere fyrste beganne,
  Ywroghte with moche of water, lyttele fyre;
  Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete
  The milkyness of kynde, and make hemselfes complete.

  Albeytte wythout wommen menne were pheeres
  To salvage kynde, and wulde botte lyve to slea,
  Botte wommenne efte the spryghte of peace so cheres,
  Tochelod yn Angel joie heie Angeles bee;
  Go, take thee swythyn to thie bedde a wyfe;
  Bee bante or blessed hie yn proovynge marryage lyfe.

  [O, SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE]

  O, synge untoe mie roundelaie! 
  O, droppe the brynie teare wythe mee! 
  Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie;
  Lycke a reynynge ryver bee: 
  Mie love ys dedde,
  Gon to hys death-bedde,
  Al under the wyllowe tree.

  Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
  Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
  Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte;
  Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe: 
  Mie love ys dedde,
  Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
  Al under the wyllowe tree.

  Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,
  Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
  Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote;
  O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: 
  Mie love ys dedde,
  Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
  Alle underre the wyllowe tree.

  Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
  In the briered delle belowe;
  Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
  To the nyghte-mares as heie goe: 
  Mie love ys dedde,
  Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
  Al under the wyllowe tree.

  See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
  Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude,
  Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
  Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude: 
  Mie love ys dedde,
  Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
  Al under the wyllowe tree.