Long have I lookt, far have I sought, oft have I wisht, and sore have I longed for my merrie mate, my quicke sprite, my dearling, and my dearest byrd: Whose courtesie so contentive, whose helpe so necessary, whose necessitie so great, whose presence so pleased me, and absence so angers mee, that when I would have him, and see I am without him, I am not in order, and being out of order, can take no good course. Alas, what shall betide me? I have lost my love, or my love hath lost me. Would God wee might meete againe, and be merry togither: which I cannot bee without him? Oh, what have I lost? my Will, whither is he gone? when will he returne? who hath led him away? or will bring him backe againe? what company is he falne into? or how doth he leade his life? Well, time yet may turne him. Till when I wish for him, hoping to meete him, but hope is uncertaine; Yet hope well, and have well, Thus alone I cannot dwell; If I find him so it is: If not, then I wis, I must be content with this. Patience is a vertue. But whom doo I behold so neare? It is my Will, with heavie cheere: Well, I am sorie for this geare, Yet will I to him out of hand, And know, how so the case doth stand. What? Will? _Will._ Who? Wit? _Wit._ Whither away? _Will._ Where I may. _Wit._ Whereunto? _Will._ Oh, to do. _Wit._ What? _Will._ Teach thou me that. _Wit._ Why, sigh not, boy? _Will._ Oh, all my joy. _Wit._ Where is it, Will? _Will._ Among the ill. _Wit._ What, is it lost? _Will._ That greeves me most. _Wit._ And not to be recoverèd? _Will._ Oh, my heart is almost dead. _Wit._ What, Will, hold up head, I will be thy friend to death. _Will_. Then give me leave to fetch my breath, And welcome: twise and thrice well met: Where my hearts joy is set. Many a walk have I fet, But no comfort could I get, Till now by thee mine onely friend, With whom I meane my life to end. If thou wilt give me leave, good Wit. _Wit._ Yes, good sweete Will, and glad of it. _Will._ Then harke, good Wit, unto my tale: Not of amidde my blisse in bale, Nor any such like stuffe so stale. I studie not to talke in verse, But I will unto thee rehearse A plaine discourse, in homely prose, Wherein I will at large disclose: How I have lived, with whom, and where: How I was tossèd, here and there: How I did chaunce to travaile hither, And so we will be merrie togither. _Wit._ Contented. Verse is good sometime, But sometime prose, and sometime rime. But be it either prose or verse, What so thou wilt, good Will, rehearse: I meane to heare it to the end, And quit thee quickly as a friend. But since thou likest prose so well, Begin in prose thy tale to tell. _Willes Tale._