Thou art my choice, I constant am,
I mean to die unspotted;

With thee ile live, for thee I love,
And keepe my name unblotted.
A vertuous life in maide and wife,
The spirit of God commends it;
Accursed he for ever be,

That seekes with shame to offend it.

With that she rose like nimble roe,
The tender grasse scarce bending,
And left me there perplext with feare
At this her sonnets ending.

I thought to move this dame of love,
But she was gone already;

Wherefore I pray that those that stay
May find their loves as steddy.

From Hans Beer-Pot his invisible Comedie of See me and see me not. 1618. A copy of this Song, wanting the fifth stanza, is printed in Ellis's Specimens.

The following seems worth insertion, as being the burden, or to use the language of the time, the Foote of many popular old songs.

SONG

BY MOROS, OR THE FOOL.

Bromè, brome on hill,

The gentle brome on hill hill,

Brome brome on hive hill,

The

The gentle brome on hive hill,

The brome standes on hive hill a.

Robin lende to me thy bowe, thy bowe,

Robin, the bow, Robin, lend to me thy bowe a

There was a mayde came out of Kent,

Deintie love, deintie love.

There was a mayde came out of Kent,

Daungerous be.

There was a mayde came out of Kent,
Fayre, proper, small and gent
As ever upon the ground went,
For so it should be.

By a banke as I lay I lay,

Musing on things past hey how,

Tom a Lin and his wife and his wives mother,
They went over a bridge all three together:

The bridge was broken, and they fell in.
The devil go with all, quoth Tom a Lin.

Martin Swart and his man sodle dum, sodle dum,
Martin Swart and his man sodle dum bell

Com over the boorne Besse,

My pretie little Besse,

Come over the boorne Besse to me.
The white dove set on the castell wall,
I bend my bow, and shoote her I shall ;
I put hir in my glove, both fethers and all,
I layd my bridle upon the shelfe,

If

you will

any more sing it yourselfe.

From a very merry and pythie Comedie, called "The longer thou livest the more Foole thou art," by W. Wager. In black letter.

No date.

In another part of the same play, the Fool gives also the Foote of other popular songs.

MOROS. THE FOOL.

I have twentie mo songs yet,
"A fond woman to my mother,"
As I war wont in her lappe to sit,
She taught me these and many other.

I can sing a song of Robin Redbreast,
And my little pretie Nightingale,

There dwelleth a jolly Foster here by the West,
Also, I com to drink som of your Christmas ale.
Whan I walke by my selfe alone,

It doth me good my songs to render.

In another part of the same Play, the Fool sings what follows, as a Catch, with other voyces:

I have a prety tytmouse

Come pecking on my to.

THREE OTHERS. Gossuppe with

FOOL.

Gossuppe with you I purpose

To drinke before I go.

FOOL.

Litle pretie nightingale,

Among the braunches greene.

Three others. Geve us of your Christmasse ale,

Spring, the sweete spring, is the yeres pleasant king
Then bloomes eche thing, then maydes daunce in a ring,
Cold doeth not sting, the pretty birds doe sing
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we to witta woo.

The palme and may make countrey houses gay,
Lambs friske and play, the shepherds pype all day,
And we heare aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we to witta woo.

The fields breathe sweete, the dayzies kisse our feete, Young lovers meete, old wives a sunning sit,

In

every streete these tunes our eares doe greete, Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we to witta woo.

Spring, the sweet spring.

From a pleasant Comedie, called Summers Last Will and Testament, by Thomas Nash.

1600.

SONG.

SONG.

OF NYMPHS TO DIANA.

Haile, beauteous Dian, queene of shades,
That dwells beneath these shadowie glades,
Mistresse of all these beauteous maids,
That are by her allowed.
Virginitie we all professe,

Abjure the worldlie vain excesse,
And will to Dyan yield no lesse

Then we to her have vowed.

The shepheards, satirs, nymphs and fawnes,
For thee will trip it ore the lawnes.

Come, to the forrest let us goe,
And trip it like the barren doe,
The fawnes and satirs still do so,

And freelie thus they may do.
The fairies daunce, and satirs sing;
And on the grasse tread manie a ring,
And to their caves their venson bring;
And we will do as they do.
The shepheards, satirs, &c. &c.

Our food is honie from the bees,

And mellow fruits that drop from trees.
In chace we clime the high degrees

Of everie steepie mountaine.
And when the wearie day is past,
We at the evening hie us fast,
And after this our field repast
We drinke the pleasant fountain,
The shepheards, satirs, &c,

VOL. II.

E

From