English Songs and Ballads | Page 4

the fight to fall
to play, in pasture where they feed; So noble nature can well end the
work she hath begun,
And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy
in some:
Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove,
The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
I marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout,
To see man,
woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about; Some 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