Condemne us not then, love makes way,
Like fire that's hid in dryest hay;

I will be no more afraid,

Ile no longer live a maide.

THE LAMENTATION OF AN ALE WIFES DAUGHTER.

To a new Tune.

In the spring time, when plants do bud,
And birds use chirping notes,
When beasts do gather heart of grasse,
And fish in water flotes:

It was my chance for to espie

A nimph of Venus traine,
Who in a grove wherein she sat
Did mightily complaine.

I hearkned to her sad lament,
I listned to her tale,

Whereby it seemed that she had
Set honestly to sale.

Alas, said shee, that mother deere

An ale-wife was to me,

Or that it was my heavie chance
To use bad company.

Wo be to him that with the oyle
Of angels me intis'd,

Thrice woe be to the golden baits
That often me surpris'd.

Woe to the toyes of youth too rash,

Woe to the crafty snares

Of crooked age that youth doe catch

In nets at unawares.

Woe to dame nature for hir paines
In making me the glasse

For others for to scoffe and laugh
As they the way doe passe.
Then gushed out the silver streames

Of water from her eyes,

Which did bedew her roseate cheekes

And that in dolefull wise.

JENKIN. At which I came and spake these words: What fortune hath decreed?

Or how, or why, have fatall fates

Committed such a deed

That thou, the mirror of our age,
And pride of natures bower,
Farre sweeter then the ruddy rose
Or gallant gillyflower,

Should'st thus lament and pine away,

Whose cheerfull countenance
The hearts of yong and eake of old
Hath causd full oft to daunce?
Ist losse of love? Ist want of wealth?
Ist cause thou sleepest alone?

Or ist the death of some deare friend
That causeth thee to mone?

Joo. Not so, my friend, what doost thou mean,
To make the thing so strange?
Experience teacheth after full

There needs must bee a change.
The golden baite intised hath

The pretious pearle from me,
Which to be gotten back againe,
Remains without remedy.

JEN. Your meaning (sweet) I do not know,
I pray you tell it plaine,
Faine would I finde some remedy

To ease you of your paine.
Joo. I thanke you for your kind good will,
Which you did shew to me,

In recompence whereof I will

My words make plaine to thee.
As nature had adorned me

With gifts of beauty rare,

So, for to deck and trim myself
Was all my chiefest care;
Then many suters came to me,
And most my betters were,
Whom I disdain'd and set light by,

My mind was to severe;

At length there came an aged man,

Of money store had he,

Who with his bags and golden baits,

Hath bred my misery.

My mother yeelded her consent,

And causd me doe the same,

Which maketh me thus to lament

That I must live in shame.
Let maidens then example take,
And warning by my fall,

Least they, like me, should catched be
By comming to the call.

Thus hast thou heard, my friend, my griefe,

I can no longer stay,

Adew, and twenty times farewell
This sorrowfull month of May.

A NEW SONNET OF CORIDON AND PHILLIDA.

CORIDON, arise, my Coridon,

Titan shineth cleare.

COR. Who is it that calleth Coridon?
Who is it I heare?

PHIL. Phillida, thy true love, calleth thee,
Arise then, arise then,

Arise and feed thy flocks with me.

COR. Phillida, my true [love], is it she? ̧
I come then, I come then,

I come and feed my flocks with thee.

PHIL. Here are cheries ripe, my Coridon,
Eate them for my sake.

COR. Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely on[e,]
Sport for thee to make.

Here are threeds, my true love, fine as silke,

To knit thee, to knit thee

A paire of stockins white as milke.

Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat,
To make thee, to make thee

A bonnet to withstand the heate.

PHIL. I will gather flowers, my Coridon,
To set in thy cap.

COR. I will gather pears, my lovely on[e,]
To set in thy lap.

PHIL. I wil buy my true love garters gay
For Sundaies, for Sundaies,

To wear about his legs so tall.
COR. I will buy my true love yellow saye
For Sundaies, for Sundaies,

To weare about her midle small.

PHIL. When my Coridon sits on a hill,
Making melody:

COR. When my lovely on[e] sits at her wheele,
Singing cheerely,

Sure, me thinkes, my true love doth excell
For sweetnesse, for sweetnesse,

Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight;

And, me thinkes, my true love beares the bell
For clearnesse, for clearnesse,

Beyond the nimphs that be so bright.

PHIL. Had my Coridon, my Coridon
Bin, alacke, my swaine,