But now it is not worth a groate; I have had itt four-and-forty yeare. 'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see, She. It is four-and-forty yeeres agoe Since the one of us the other did ken, We have brought them up to women and men, He. O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute, Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen, Once in my life Ile do as they, For Ile have a new cloake about mee. She. King Stephen was a worthy peere, His breeches cost him but a crowne, And thouse but of a low degree Its pride that putts this countrye downe- He. Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, And oft to live a quiet life I'm forced to yield though I bee good-man. As we began sae will wee leave And Ile take my old cloake about mee. Anonymous-16th century. MEDLEY. I care not for the fan or mask, Which well my face protecteth; In every season of the year I undergo my labor; No shower nor wind at all I fear, If summer's heat my beauty stain, Sith I can wash it off again With a cup of Christmas liquor. 375 From a black-letter copy in the Assigns of Symcocke. HARVEST SONG. FROM THE GERMAN. Sickles sound; On the ground Fast the ripe ears fall; Every maiden's bonnet Joy is over all. Sickles ring, Maidens sing To the sickle's sound; All are springing, From one dish they eat; Each is now a king. Hans and Michael Whet the sickle, SERVIAN SONG OF THE PEASANT'S WIFE, Come, companion, let us hurry, Said that I had beat my husband, When, poor soul, I had not touched him; And he would not wash the dishes; Threw, then, at his head the pitcher;, Yes, and half a one besides. Translated by TALVI. LINES. She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Beside the springs of Dove; A maid whom there were none to praise. |