"Thy yeares are young, thy face is faire,
"Thy witts are weake, thy thoughts are greene;
"Time hath not given thee leave, as yett,
"For to committ fo great a finne."
Yes, herdfman, yes, foe woldft thou fay,
If thou kneweft foe much as I ;
My witts, and thoughts, and all the rest,
Have well deferved for to dye.
I am not what I feeme to bee,
My clothes and fexe doe differ farr,
I am a woman, woe is me!
Born to greeffe and irkfome care.
my beloved, and well-beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill:
And though my teares will nought avail,
Moft dearely I bewail him ftill.
He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more fincere colde bee;
Of comelye mien and shape he was,
And tenderlye hee loved mee.
When thus I faw he loved me well,
grewe fo proude his paine to fee, That I, who did not know my felfe,
Thought scorne of fuch a youth as hee.
grew foe coy and nice to please,
As womens lookes are often foe,
He might not kifes, nor hand forfooth,
Unleffe I willed him foe to doe.
Thus being wearyed with delayes,
To fee I pityed not his greeffe,
He gott him to a fecrett place,
And there hee dyed without releeffe.
And for his fake thefe weedes I weare
And facrifice my tender age;
And every day Ile begg my bread,
To undergoe this pilgrimage.
Thus every day I faft and praye,
And ever will doe till I dye;
And gett me to fome fecrett place,
For foe did hee, and foe will 1.
Now, gentle herdsman, afke no more,
But keepe my fecretts I thee pray;
Unto the towne of Walfingham
Show me the right and readye way.
"Now goe thy ways, and God before! "For he muft ever guide thee ftill: "Turne downe that dale, the right hand path, "And fo faire Pilgrim, fare thee well!"
Q. ELIZABETH's VERSES, WHILE PRISONER AT WOODSTOCK,
WRIT WITH CHARCOAL ON A SHUTTER.
Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt!
Witnes this prefent prifonn, whither fate
Could beare me, and the joys I quitt.
Thou caufedeft the guiltie to be lofed
From bandes, wherein are innocents inclosed:
Caufing the guiltles to be ftraite referved,
And freeing thofe that death had well deserved.
But by her envie can be nothing wroughte,
So God fend to my foes all they have thoughte.
ALOW, my babe, ly ftil and fleipe!
It grieves me fair to see thee weipe:
If thouft be filent, Ife be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful fad.
Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.
Balow, my babe, ly ftil and fleipe,
It grieves me fair to see thee weipe.
When he began to court my luve,
And with his fugred wordes to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire
To me that time did nat appeire:
But now I fee, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe, nor mee.
Ly ftil, my darling, fleipe a while,
And whan thou wakeft, fwcitly fmile:
But finile nat, as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay God forbid!
Bot
yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire
Thy fatheris hart, and face to beire.
Balow, &c.
I cannae chufe, but ever wil
Be luving to thy father ftil:
Whair-eir he gaes, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun ftil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neire depart him frae.
Bot doe nat, doe nat, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new;
If gude or faire, of hir hae care,
For womens banning's wonderous fair.
Bairne, fin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles mann eise my paine;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve:
My babe and I right faft will ly,
And quite forgeit man's cruelty.
Fareweil, fareweil, thou falfeft youth,
That evir kift a womans mouth!
I wish all maides be warnd by mee
Nevir to truft mans curtesy;
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