Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
  Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
  Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
  Al the celness of a mayde: 
  Mie love ys dedde,
  Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
  Alle under the wyllowe tree.

  Wythe mie hondes I’lle dente the brieres
  Rounde his hallie corse to gre;
  Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres,
  Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee: 
  Mie love ys dedde,
  Gon to hys death-bedde,
  Al under the wyllowe tree.

  Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne
  Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
  Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,
  Daunce bie nete, or feaste by dale: 
  Mie love ys dedde,
  Gon to hys death-bedde,
  Al under the wyllowe tree.

  Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
  Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. 
  I die!  I comme! mie true love waytes.—­
  Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

  AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

  AS WROTEN BIE THE GODE PRIESTE THOMAS ROWLEY, 1464

  In Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene,
  And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie;
  The apple rodded from its palie greene,
  And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie;
  The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie;
  ’Twas nowe the pride, the manhode, of the yeare,
  And eke the grounde was dighte in its most defte aumere.

  The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie,
  Deadde still the aire, and eke the welkea blue;
  When from the sea arist in drear arraie
  A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue,
  The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe,
  Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face,
  And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace.

  Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side
  Which dide unto Seynete Godwine’s covent lede,
  A hapless pilgrim moneynge dyd abide,
  Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede,
  Longe bretful of the miseries of neede;
  Where from the hailstone coulde the almer flie? 
  He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.

  Look in his glommed face, his spright there scanne: 
  Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade! 
  Haste to thie church-glebe-house, ashrewed manne;
  Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dorture bedde: 
  Cale as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde
  Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves;
  Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.

  The gathered storme is rype; the bigge drops falle;
  The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine;
  The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall,
  And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine;
  Dashde from the cloudes, the waters flott againe;
  The welkin opes, the yellow levynne flies,
  And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.