English Songs and Ballads | Page 4

kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can
smoothly smile,?And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile; Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout, Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out: Thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove,?The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
_SIR THOMAS WYATT_
THE LOVER'S LUTE
BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound?Of this or that as liketh me;?For lack of wit the Lute is bound?To give such tunes as pleaseth me;?Though my songs be somewhat strange,?And speak such words as touch my change,?Blame not my Lute!
My Lute, alas! doth not offend,?Though that perforce he must agree?To sound such tunes as I intend?To sing to them that heareth me;?Then though my songs be somewhat plain,?And toucheth some that use to feign,?Blame not my Lute!
My Lute and strings may not deny,?But as I strike they must obey;?Break not them so wrongfully,?But wreak thyself some other way;?And though the songs which I indite?Do quit thy change with rightful spite,?Blame not my Lute!
Spite asketh spite, and changing change,?And falsed faith must needs be known;?The faults so great, the case so strange;?Of right it must abroad be blown:?Then since that by thine own desert?My songs do tell how true thou art,?Blame not my Lute!
Blame but thyself that hast misdone,?And well deserved to have blame;?Change thou thy way, so evil begone,?And then my Lute shall sound that same;?But if till then my fingers play,?By thy desert their wonted way,?Blame not my Lute!
Farewell! unknown; for though thou break?My strings in spite with great disdain,?Yet have I found out for thy sake,?Strings for to string my Lute again:?And if perchance this silly rhyme?Do make thee blush at any time,?Blame not my Lute!
_CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE_
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
COME live with me and be my Love,?And we will all the pleasures prove?That hills and valleys, dale and field,?And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks?And see the shepherds feed their flocks,?By shallow rivers, to whose falls?Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses?And a thousand fragrant posies,?A cap of flowers, and a kirtle?Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool,?Which from our pretty lambs we pull,?Fair lined slippers for the cold,?With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds?With coral clasps and amber studs:?And if these pleasures may thee move,?Come live with me and be my Love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meat?As precious as the gods do eat,?Shall on an ivory table be?Prepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing?For thy delight each May morning:?If these delights thy mind may move,?Then live with me and be my Love.
_JOHN STILL_
JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD
I CANNOT eat but little meat,?My stomach is not good;?But sure I think that I can drink?With him that wears a hood.?Though I go bare, take ye no care,?I nothing am a-cold;?I stuff my skin so full within?Of jolly good ale and old.?Back and side go bare, go bare;?Both foot and hand go cold;?But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,?Whether it be new or old.
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,?And a crab laid in the fire;?A little bread shall do me stead,?Much bread I not desire,?No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,?Can hurt me if I wold;?I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd?Of jolly good ale and old.
And Tib, my wife, that as her life?Loveth well good ale to seek,?Full oft drinks she till ye may see?The tears run down her cheek.?Then doth she trowl to me the bowl?Even as a maltworm should,?And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part?Of this jolly good ale and old.'
Now let them drink till they nod and wink,?Even as good fellows should do;?They shall not miss to have the bliss?Good ale doth bring men to;?And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls,?Or have them lustily troll'd,?God save the lives of them and their wives?Whether they be young or old.?Back and side go bare, go bare;?Both foot and hand go cold;?But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,?Whether it be new or old.
_NICHOLAS BRETON_
PHILLIDA AND CORYDON
IN the merry month of May,?In a morn by break of day,?With a troop of damsels playing?Forth I went forsooth a-maying.
When anon by a wood side,?Where, as May was in his pride,?I espied, all alone,?Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!?He would love, and she would not,?She said, never man was true:?He says none was false to you;
He said he had lov'd her long;?She says love should have no wrong,?Corydon would kiss her then;?She says, maids must kiss no men,
Till they do for good and all,?When she made the shepherd call?All the heavens to witness truth,?Never lov'd a truer