"So we make moan for the old sweet days, Poor old light women, two or three Squatting above the straw-fire's blaze, The bosom crushed against the knee, Like faggots on a heap we be, Round fires soon lit, soon quenched and done; And we were once so sweet, even we! Thus fareth many and many an one." A DOUBLE BALLAD OF GOOD COUNSEL Now take your fill of love and glee, And after balls and banquets hie; In the end ye'll get no good for fee, But just heads broken by and by; Light loves make beasts of men that sigh; They changed the faith of Solomon, And left not Samson lights to spy; Good luck has he that deals with none! Sweet Orpheus, lord of minstrelsy, For this with flute and pipe came nigh The danger of the dog's heads three That ravening at hell's door doth lie; Fain was Narcissus, fair and shy, For love's love lightly lost and won, In a deep well to drown and die; Good luck has he that deals with none! Sardana, flower of chivalry, Who conquered Crete with horn and cry, For this was fain a maid to be And learn with girls the thread to ply; King David, wise in prophecy, Forgot the fear of God for one Seen washing either shapely thigh; Good luck has he that deals with none! For this did Amnon, craftily Feigning to eat of cakes of rye, Deflower his sister fair to see, Which was foul incest; and hereby Was Herod moved, it is no lie, To lop the head of Baptist John For dance and jig and psaltery; Good luck has he that deals with none! Next of myself I tell, poor me, How thrashed like clothes at wash was I Stark naked, I must needs agree; Who made me eat so sour a pie But Katherine of Vaucelles? thereby, Noe took third part of that fun; Such wedding-gloves are ill to buy; Good luck has he that deals with none! But for that young man fair and free To pass those young maids lightly by, Nay, would you burn him quick, not he; Like broom-horsed witches though he fry, They are sweet as civet in his eye; But trust them, and you're fooled anon; For white or brown, and low or high, Good luck has he that deals with none! FRAGMENT ON DEATH And Paris be it or Helen dying, Who dies soever, dies with pain. He that lacks breath and wind for sighing, His gall bursts on his heart; and then He sweats, God knows what sweat!--again, No man may ease him of his grief; Child, brother, sister, none were fain To bail him thence for his relief. Death makes him shudder, swoon, wax pale, Nose bend, veins stretch, and breath surrender, Neck swell, flesh soften, joints that fail Crack their strained nerves and arteries slender. O woman's body found so tender, Smooth, sweet, so precious in men's eyes, Must thou too bear such count to render? Yes; or pass quick into the skies.