"'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Untoe the lande of blysse; Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, Receive thys holie kysse." Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, Tremblynge these wordyes spoke:-- "Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! My herte ys welle nyghe broke: "Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe, Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe? The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe." And nowe the officers came ynne To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, And thus to her dydd saie:-- "I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; Truste thou ynne Godde above, And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde, And ynne theyre hertes hym love: "Teache them to runne the nobile race Thatt I theyre fader runne: Florence! shou'd dethe thee take--adieu! Yee officers, leade onne." Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde, And dydd her tresses tere; "Oh! staie, mye husbande! lorde! and lyfe!" Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. 'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud, She fellen onne the flore; Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte, And march'd fromme oute the dore. Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete; Lookes, thatt enshone ne more concern Thanne anie ynne the strete. MYNSTRELLES SONGE O! synge untoe mie roundelaie, O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Lycke a reynynge ryver bee; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree; Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle underre the wvllowe tree. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde; Nee one hallie Seynete to save Al the eelness of a mayde. Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle under the wyllowe tree.