All this make ye; now let us flee,
The day cometh fast upon;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.

MAN. Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go,
And I shall tell ye why;-

Your appetyte is to be lyght
Of love, I wele espie ;

For lyke as ye have sayde to me,
In lykewyse hardely

Ye wolde answere, whosoever it were,
In way of company.

It is sayd of olde, 'Sone hote, sone colde,'
And so is a woman;
Wherefore I to the wode wyll go,
Alone, a banishyd man.

WOм. Yf ye take hede, yt is no nede
Such wordes to say by me;
For oft ye prayd, and longe assayd,
Or I you loved par-dy;

And though that I of auncestry
A baron's daughter be,

Yet have you proved howe I you loved,
A squyer of low degree;

And ever shall what so befall,

To dy therefore anone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.

MAN. A baron's chylde to be begylde,
It were a cursed dede:

To be felawe with an outlawe,
Almighty God forbede!

Yt better were, the pore squyere
Alone to forrest spede,

Than ye sholde say another day,

That, by my cursed dede,

Ye were betrayd. Wherefore, good mayd,
The best rede that I can,

Is, that I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banishyd man.

WOM. Whatever befall, I never shall
Of this thyng you upbrayd;
But yf ye go, and leve me so,
Then have ye me betrayd.
Remember ye wele, howe that
For, yf ye, as ye sayd,

ye

dele;

Be so unkynde, to leve behynde
Your love, the Nut-browne Mayd,

Trust me truely, that I shall dy
Sone after ye be gone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.

MAN. Yf that

ye went, ye

For in the forrest nowe

shulde repent;

I have purveid me of a mayde,
Whom I love more than you:

Another fayrere, than ever ye were,
I dare it well avowe;

And of you bothe eche shulde be wrothe
Wyth other, as I trowe;

It were myne ese, to live in pese,

So wyll I, yf I can:

Wherefore I to the wode wyll go,
Alone, a banishyd man.

WOм. Though in the wode I undirstode
Ye had a paramour,

All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I wyll be

your:

And she shall fynde me soft and kynde,
And curteis every hour;

Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll

Commaunde me to my power.

For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
Yet wolde I be that one;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.

MAN. Myne own dere love, I see the prove,
That ye be kynde and trewe;

Of mayde and wyfe, in all my lyfe,
The best that ever I knewe.

Be mery

and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaunged newe;

For it were ruthe, that for your truthe,
Ye shulde have cause to rewe.
Be not dismayd; whatsoever I sayd
To you, whan I began;

I wyll not to the grene wode goe,
I am no banishyd man.

WOм. These tydings be more glad to me, Than to be made a quene,

Yf I were sure they shulde endure;

But it is often seene,

When men wyll breke promyse, they speke The wordes on the splene:

Ye shape some wyle, me to begyle,

And stele from me I wene.

Then were the case worse than it was,

And I more wo-begone:

For in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.

MAN. Ye shall not nede further to drede;
I wyll not disparage

You, (God defend!) syth you descend
Of so great a lynage.

Nowe undyrstande, to Westmarlande,
Whiche is myne herytage,

I wyll you brynge, and wyth a rynge,
By way of maryage,

I wyll you take, and lady make,
As shortely as I can:

Thus have you won an erlyes son,
And not a banishyd man.

HENRY AND EMMA.

А РОЕМ,

UPON THE MODEL OF

THE NUT-BROWN MAID.

TO CHLOE.

THOU, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand)
I take the sprightly reed, and sing and play,
Careless of what the censuring world may say;
Bright Chloe! object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou awhile unbend thy serious brow?
Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heavenly smile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old,
Though since her youth three hundred years have
roll'd:

At thy desire she shall again be raised,
And her reviving charms in lasting verse be praised.
No longer man of woman shall complain,
That he may love, and not be loved again;
That we in vain the fickle sex pursue,
Who change the constant lover for the new.
Whatever has been writ, whatever said
Of female passion feign'd, or faith decay'd,