'Ah, deere Lady!' sayd Robin Hoode,
'Thou art both mother and may!
I thinke it was never man's destinye
To dye before his day.'

Robin thought on Our Lady deere,

And soone leapt up againe,

And thus he came with an awkwarde stroke;
Good Sir Guy hee has slayne.

He tooke Sir Guy's head by the hayre,
And sticked itt on his bowe's end:
'Thou hast beene traytor all thy liffe,
Which thing must have an ende.'

Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
And nicked Sir Guy in the fface,
That hee was never on a woman borne
Cold tell who Sir Guye was.

Saies, Lye there, lye there, good Sir Guye,

And with me be not wrothe;

If thou have had the worse stroakes at my hand, Thou shalt have the better cloathe.'

Robin did off his gowne of greene,
Sir Guye hee did it throwe;
And hee put on that cappull-hyde
That cladd him topp to toe.

'The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne,
And with me now I'le beare;
Ffor now I will goe to Barnesdale,
To see how my men doe ffare.'

Robin sett Guye's horne to his mouth,
A lowd blast in it he did blow;

That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.

'Hearken! hearken!' sayd the sheriffe,
'I heard noe tydings but good;

For yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe,
For he hath slaine Robin Hoode.

'For yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blow,
Itt blowes soe well in tyde,

For yonder comes that wighty yeoman,
Cladd in his capull-hyde.

'Come hither, thou good Sir Guy,

Aske of mee what thou wilt have:'

'I'le none of thy gold,' sayes Robin Hood, 'Nor I'le none of itt have.

'But now I have slaine the master,' he sayd,

'Let me goe strike the knave;

This is all the reward I aske,

Nor noe other will I have.'

'Thou art a madman,' said the sheriffe,

'Thou sholdest have had a knight's ffee;

Seeing thy asking hath beene soe badd,
Well granted it shall be.'

But Little John heard his master speake,
Well he knew that was his steven;
'Now shall I be loset,' quoth Little John,
'With Christs might in heaven.'

But Robin hee hyed him towards Little John,
Hee thought hee wold loose him belive ;
The sheriffe and all his companye

Fast after him did drive.

ENG. POEMS-3

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'Stand abacke! stand abacke!' sayd Robin ;

'Why draw you mee soe neere?

Itt was never the use in our countrye
One's shrift another shold heere.'

But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
And losed John hand and ffoote,
And gave him Sir Guye's bow in his hand,
And bade it be his boote.

But John tooke Guye's bow in his hand
(His arrowes were rawstye by the roote);
The sheriffe saw Little John draw a bow
And ffettle him to shoote.

Towards his house in Nottingham
He ffled full fast away,

And soe did all his companye,

Not one behind did stay.

But he cold neither soe fast goe,

Nor away soe fast runn,

But Little John, with an arrow broade,

Did cleave his heart in twinn.

THE RENAISSANCE

SIR THOMAS WYATT

1503-1542

A RENOUNCING OF LOVE

FAREWELL, Love, and all thy laws forever!
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more:
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore

To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavor.
In blind error when I did persèver,

Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore,
Taught me in trifles that I set no store;

But 'scaped forth thence since, liberty is lever.
Therefore, farewell! go trouble younger hearts,
And in me claim no more authority.

With idle youth go use thy property,

And thereon spend thy many brittle darts;
For hitherto though I have lost my time,

Me list no longer rotten boughs to climb.

5

ΙΟ

A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS HE WOULD LOVE

A FACE that should content me wondrous well,
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold,

Of lively look, all grief for to repell,

With right good grace, so would I that it should
Speak without word, such words as none can tell;
The tress also should be of crispèd gold.
With wit and these perchance I might be tied,
And knit again with knot that should not slide.

5

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURRI

1517-1547

DESCRIPTION OF SPRING

THE SOOte season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale.
The nightingale with feathers new she sings';
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he slings;
The fishes flete with new repairèd scale;
The adder all her slough away she slings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mings;
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.

And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs!