A BALLAD OF THE NOTBROWNE MAYDE.1

A.

Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among on women do complayne;

Affyrmynge this-how that it is a labour spent in

vayne,

1 This ancient poem was originally printed in an old black-letter book, entitled, The Customes of London or Arnolde's Chronicle, which Mr. Capell supposes appeared about the year 1521. According to that gentleman's opinion—“It was certainly written in the beginning of the sixteenth century, and not sooner: the curious in these matters, who shall conceive a doubt of what is here asserted through remembrance of what he has seen advanced by a poet of late days, is desired to look into the works of the great Sir Thomas More, and particularly into a poem that stands at the head of them, and from thence receive conviction; if sameness of rhymes, sameness of orthography, and a very near affinity of words and phrases be capable of giving it." The poet of late days mentioned above, is certainly Mr. Prior, who in the edition of his poems published in 1718, had asserted it to have been written three hundred years since. What led him to that mistaken notion, was probably a writer in the Muses Mercury for June 1707, who conjectures that it was written about the year 1472. The same writer says, and the ballad seems to confirm it, that the persons represented are a young Lord, the Earl of Westmoreland's son, and a lady of equal quality. The copy from which this poem hath hitherto been printed being very inaccurate, it is here given according to that published by Mr. Capell.

To love them wele; for never a dele they love a man agayne:

For late a man do what he can, theyr favour to

attayne,

Yet, yf a newe do them pursue, theyr fyrst true lover than

Laboureth for nought; for from her thought he is a banyshed man.

I

B.

say nat, nay, but that all day it is bothe writ and sayd,

That womens fayth is, as who sayth, all utterly decayed:

But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnèsse in this case might be layed,

That they love true, and continùe; recorde the notbrowne mayde;

Which, when her love came, her to prove, to her to make his mone,

Wolde nat depart; for in her hart she loved but hym alone.

A.

Than betwayne us late us dyscus what was all the

manère

Betwayne them two: we wyll also tell all the

and fere,

payne,

That she was in: nowe I begyn, so that ye me an

swère ;—

Wherefore, all ye, that present be, I pray you give

an ere:

I am the knyght; I come by nyght, as secret as I

can ;

Sayinge, Alas, thus standeth the case, I am a banyshed man.

B.

And I your wyll for to fulfyll in this wyll nat re

fuse;

Trustynge to shewe in wordes fewe, that men have na yll use

(To theyr own shame) women to blame, and causelesse them accuse :

Therfore to you I answere nowe, all women to ex

cuse,

Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? I pray you, tell anone;

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

A.

It standeth so; a dede is do, whereof grete harme shall growe:

My destiny is for to dy a shamefull deth, I trowe; Or elles to fle: the one must be; none other way

I knowe,

But to withdrawe as an outlawe, and take me to my bowe.

Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true! none other rede I can ;

For I must to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed

man.

B.

O Lorde, what is this worldys blysse, that chaungeth as the mone!

The somers day in lusty May is derked before the

none.

I here you say, farewell; nay, nay, we départ nat

so sone:

Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go? alas, what have ye done?

All my welfare to sorrowe and care sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone;

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

alone.

A.

I can beleve, it shall you greve, and somwhat you

dystrayne:

But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde within a day or twayne

Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take comfort to you

agayne.

Why sholde ye ought? for, to make thought, your labour were in vayne.

And thus I do; and pray you to, as hartely as I can ; For I must to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed

man.

B.

Now, syth that ye have shewed to me the secret of your mynde,

I shall be playne to you agayne, lyke as ye shall me fynde:

Syth it is so that ye wyll go, I wolle not leve be

hynde ;

Shall it never be sayd, the Notbrowne mayd was to her love unkynde:

[anone;

Make you redy; for so am I, although it were For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

A.

Yet I you rede to take good hede what men wyll thynke and say:

Of

younge and olde it shall be tolde, that ye be

gone away;

Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, in grene wode you

to play ;

And that ye myght from your delyght no lenger make delay:

Rather than ye sholde thus for me be called an yll

woman,

Yet wolde I to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed

man.

B.

Though it be songe of olde and yonge, that I sholde be to blame,

Theyrs be the charge that speke so large in hurtynge of my name :

For I wyll prove, that faythful love it is devoyd of shame;

In your dystresse, and hevynesse, to part wyth you,

the same;

To shewe all tho that do nat so, true lovers are they

none: