And zees get a grein sey apron,

And waiftcote o' London broun; And wow bot ze will be vaporing Quhaneer ze gang to the toun..

Ime yong and flout, my Marion,
Nane dance lik mee on the greine,
And gin ze forfak me, Marion,

Ife een gae draw up wi' Jeane.
Sae put on zour pearlins, Marion,

And kirkle oth cramafie;

And fune as my chin has nae haire on,.

I fall cum weft, and see zee.

THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH LOVE.

I

Lothe that I did love,

In youth that I thought fwete:

As tyme requires for my behove,
Me thinkes they are not mete.

For age with ftealing steps,

Hath clawed me with his crowch, And lufty life away fhe leapes,

A sthere had ben none fuch.

My mufe doth not delight

Me as fhe did before,

My hand and pen are not in plight,
As they have ben of yore.

For reafon me denyes

This youthly ydle rime,
And day by day to me the cryes,
Leave off thefe toyes in tyme.

The wrinkles in my brow,
The furrowes in my face

Say, limping age will lodge him now,
Where youth must geve him place.

The harbinger of death,

To me I fee him ride,

The cough, the colde, the gasping breath, Doth bid me to provy de

A pikeax and a spade,

And eke a fhrowding fhete, A howfe of clay for to be made, For fuch a gueft moft mete.

Me thinkes I heare the clarke,

That knowles the careful knell,

And bids me leave my woful warke,
Ere nature me compell.

My keepers knit the knot,

That youth did laugh to skorne, Of me that clene fhal be forgot,

As I had not been borne.

Thus must I youth geve up,
Whofe badge I long did weare,
To them I yield the wanton cup
That better may it beare.

Lo here the bar-hed skull,

By whofe balde figne I know, That flouping age away fhall pull, Which youthful yeres did fow.

For beauty with her band,

Thefe croked cares hath wrought, And shipped me into the lande, From whence I first was brought,

And ye that byde behinde,
Have ye none other truft:
As ye of clay wer caft by kinde,
So fhall ye waft to dust.

A SONG TO THE LUTE IN MUSICKE.

HERE gripinge grefes the hart would wounde,
And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse,

There muficke with her filver found
With fpede is wont to send redreffe:
Of trobled mynds, in every fore,

Swete muficke hathe a falve in store..

In joye yt maks our mirthe abounde,
In woe yt cheres our hevy fprites;
Be-ftrawghted heads relyef hath founde,
By musickes pleasaunt fwete delightes:
Our fenfes all, what fhall I fay more?
Are fubjecte unto muficks lore.

The Gods by muficke have theire prayse,
The lyfe, the foule therein doth joye;
For, as the Romayne poet fayes,

In feas, whom pyrats would deftroy,
A dolphin faved from death most sharpe
Arion playing on hys harpe.

O heavenly gyft, that rules the mynd,
Even as the fterne dothe rule the shippe!
O muficke, whom the gods affinde

To comforte manne, whom cares would nippe!
Senfe thow both man and befte doeft move,
What befte ys he, wyll the difprove?

GENTLE HERDSMAN, TELL TO ME.

G

Entle herdsman, tell to me,
Of curtefy I thee pray,

Unto the towne of Walfingham
Which is the right and ready way.

"Unto the towne of Walfingham
"The way is hard for to be gone;
"And verry crooked are those pathes
"For you to find out all alone."

Were the miles doubled thrife,
And the way never foe ill,

Itt were not enough for mine offence;
Itt is foe grievous and foe ill.