"'And spoke not her majesty at all?' I asked; and my lord said, 'She would not have been a woman, Nan, an she had held her tongue after being once resolved to use it. She made the next day an oration in Latin, and stopped in the midst to bid my Lord Burleigh be seated, and not to stand painfully on his gouty feet. Beshrew me, but I think she did it to show the poor dean how much better her memory served her than his had done, for she looked round to where he was standing ere she resumed her discourse. And now, Meg, clear thy throat and tune thy pipe, for not another word will I speak till thou hast sung that ditty good Mr. Martin set to music for thee.' I have set it down here, Mistress Constance, with the notes as she sung it, that you may sing it also; and not like it the less that my quaint fancy pictures the maiden the poet sings of, in her 'frock of frolic green,' like unto my sweet friend who dwells not far from one of the fair rivers therein named. A knight, as antique stories tell, A daughter had named Dawsabel, A maiden fair and free; She wore a frock of frolic green, Might well become a maiden queen, Which seemly was to see. The silk well could she twist and twine, And make the fine March pine, And with the needle work; And she could help the priest to say His matins on a holy day, And sing a psalm in kirk. Her features all as fresh above As is the grass that grows by Dove, And lythe as lass of Kent; Her skin as soft as Leinster wool, And white as snow on Penhisk Hull, Or swan that swims on Trent. This maiden on a morn betime Goes forth when May is in its prime, To get sweet setywall, The honeysuckle, the hurlock, The lily and the lady-smock, To deck her father's hall.