Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the brieres Rounde his hallie corse to gre; Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres; Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. I die! I come! mie true love waytes. Thus the damselle spake, and died. AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITTE AS WROTEN BIE THE GODE PRIESTE THOMAS ROWLEIE, 1464. In Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene, And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie: The apple rodded from its palic greene, And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; 'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare, And eke the grounde was dighte in its mose defte aumere. The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue, When from the sea arist in drear arraie A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetyve face, And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace. Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaieside, Which dyde unto Seynete Godwine's covent lede, A hapless pilgrim moneynge dyd abide; Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede, Longe bretful of the miseries of neede, Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie? He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie. Look in his gloomed face, his sprighte there scanne; Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade! Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne! Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde. Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde, Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves; Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves. The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine; The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall, And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine; Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe; The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies; And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies. Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs; Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown'd, Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges; The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges; Again the levynne and the thunder poures, And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stones showers.