Wommen bee made, notte for hemselves, botte manne, Bone of hys bone, and chyld of hys desire; Fromme an ynutyle membere fyrste beganne, Ywroghte with moche of water, lyttele fyre; Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete The milkyness of kynde, and make hemselfes complete. Albeytte wythout wommen menne were pheeres Go, take thee swythyn to thie bedde a wyfe; Bee bante or blessed hie yn proovynge marryage lyfe. [O, SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE] O, synge untoe mie roundelaie! O, droppe the brynie teare wythe mee! Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. I die! I comme! mie true love waytes.Thos the damselle spake, and dyed, AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE AS WROTEN BIE THE GODE PRIESTE THOMAS ROWLEY, 1464 In Virgynè the sweltrie sun gan sheene, And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, 're. And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace. Where from the hailstone coulde the almer flie? Look in his glommèd face, his spright there scanne: Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves. The gathered storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine; And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies. Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound Shakes the hie spyre, and, losst, dispended, drowned, And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers. Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, With the mist almes-craver neere to the holme to bide. His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, With a gold button fastened neere his chynne; His autremete was edged with golden twynne, And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne— Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne; The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. 'An almes, sir prieste!' the droppynge pilgrim saide; 'O let me waite within your covente dore, Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; 'Varlet,' replyd the Abbatte, 'cease your dinne! This is no season almes and prayers to give. Mie porter never lets a faitour in; None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.' And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve, And shettynge on the ground his glairie raie: The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie. Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde: Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen, Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde; His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; A Limitoure he was of order seene. And from the pathwaie side then turned hee, Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree. 'An almes, sir priest!' the droppynge pilgrim sayde, 'For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake!" The Limitoure then loosened his pouche threade, And did thereoute a groate of silver take: The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. 'Here, take this silver; it maie eathe thie care: We are Goddes stewards all, nete of our owne we bare. 'But ah, unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde. Here, take my semecope-thou arte bare, I see; 'Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.' He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power! THOMAS DAY FROM THE DESOLATION OF AMERICA I see, I see, swift bursting through the shade, |