Ye say that when a man is dead He never more shall lift his head, As doth the flower perishèd, Nor break ne sweet ne bitter bread. I hold you much in scorn! Lo, if you cast in earth a seed That seemeth to be dead indeed, I wot ye shall have corn; And all men shall rejoice and reap: And so it fares with them that sleep, The narrow house doth them but keep Until the judgment morn. DIABOLUS. There is an end of grief and mirth, There is an end of all things born, And if ye sow into the earth A seed, ye shall have corn; But if ye sow its withered root It shall not bear you any fruit, It will not sprout and spring again; And if ye look to gather grain, Of men mote ye have scorn. Man’s body buried is the sown Dead root, whose flower is over-blown. SANCTUS PAULUS. Beshrew thee for thy subtleties That melt the hearts of men with lies, An evil task hath he that tries To still thy subtle tongue! But look ye round and ye shall see The Dames that Queens of dead men be, I wot there are no mo than three, When all is said and sung. _Hic intrabunt et cantabunt tres Reginæ_. PERSEPHONE. I am the Queen Persephone. The lips of Grecians prayed to me, Saying, I give men sleep; But I would have ye well to know That with me none do slumber so; But there be some that weep, And juster souls content to dwell Among the fields of asphodel, By the Nine Waters deep. HELA. I am the Queen of Hela’s House, Great clouds I bind upon my brows; Night for a covering. For them I hold, I will ye wot They sorrow, but they slumber not, They have no lust to sing, And never comes a merry voice, Nor doth a soul of them rejoice Until their uprising. SANCTA LUCIA. I am a Queen of Paradise, And who shall look on me, I wis, His spirit shall find grace. Whoso dwells with me walks along In gardens glad with small birds’ song, A flowered and grassy place, Therein the souls of blessèd men Wait each, till comes his love again, To look upon her face! SANCTUS PAULUS. Thou, Sir Diabolus, art shent, I wot that well ye might repent, But till Midsummer fall in Lent, Ye will not cease to sin. Get thee to dungeon underground And sit beside thy man, Mahound. I wot I would ye twain were bound For evermore therein. _Fugiat Diabolus ad locum suum_. STOKER BILL. A BALLAD OF THE SCHOOL-BOARD FLEET.