PALINODE. Is not thilk the merry month of May, When love-lads masken in fresh array? How falls it, then, we no merrier bene, Alike as others, girt in gaudy green? Our bloncket liveries be all too sad For thilk same season, when all is yclad With pleasance; the ground with grass, the woods With green leaves, the bushes with blooming buds. Youth's folk now flocken in every where, To gather May-buskets and smelling brere; And home they hasten the posts to dight, And all the kirk-pillars ere day-light, With hawthorn buds, and sweet eglantine, And garlands of roses, and sops-in-wine. Such merrimake holy saints doth queme, But we here sitten as drown'd in dream. PIERS. For younkers, Palinode, such follies fit, But we tway be men of elder wit. PAL. Sicker this morrow, no longer ago, I saw a shoal of shepheards outgo With singing, and shouting, and jolly cheer: Before them yode a lusty tabrere, That to the many a horn-pipe play'd, Whereto they dancen each one with his maid. To see those folks make such jovisance, Made my heart after the pipe to dance: Then to the green wood they speeden them all, To fetchen home May with their musical; And home they bringen in a royal throne, Crowned as king; and his queen attone Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend A fair flock of faeries, and a fresh bend Of lovely nymphs. (O that I were there, To helpen the ladies their Maybush bear!) Ah! Piers, be not thy teeth on edge, to think How great sport they gainen with little swink? PIERS. Perdie, so far am I from envy, That their fondness inly I pity: Those faitours little regarden their charge, While they, letting their sheep run at large, Passen their time, that should be sparely spent, In lustihed and wanton merriment. Thilk same be shepheards for the devil's stead, That playen while their flocks be unfed: Well it is seen their sheep be not their own, That letten them run at random alone: But they be hired for little pay Of other, that caren as little as they, What fallen the flock, so they have the fleece, And get all the gain, paying but a piece. I muse, what account both these will make; The one for the hire, which he doth take, And th' other for leaving his Lord's task, When great Pan account of shepheards shall ask. PAL. Sicker, now I see thou speakest of spite, All for thou lackest somdele their delight. I (as I am) had rather be envied, All were it of my foe, than fonly pitied; And yet, if need were, pitied would be, Rather than other should scorn at me; For pitied is mishap that n'as remedy, But scorned be deeds of fond foolery. What shoulden shepheards other things tend, Than, sith their God his good does them send, Reapen the fruit thereof, that is pleasure,