THE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD

WEEP, weep, ye woodmen, wail,
Your hands with sorrow wring;'
Your master Robin Hood lies dead,
Therefore sigh as you sing.

Here lie his primer and his beads,
His bent bow and his arrows keen,
His good sword and his holy cross :
Now cast on flowers fresh and green;

And as they fall shed tears and say,
Well, welladay, well, welladay,
Thus cast ye flowers and sing,
And on to Wakefield take your way.

Robert, Earl of Huntingdon.1

1 By Munday and Chettle.

HEY dery dery, with a lusty dery,

Hoigh Mistress Mary, I pray you be merry.

Your pretty person we may compare to Lais,
A morsel for princes and nobler kings;
In beauty you excel the fair lady Thais ;
You exceed the beautiful Helen in all things.
To behold your face who can be weary?

Hoigh my Mistress Mary, I pray you be merry.
The hair of your head shineth as the pure gold,
Your eyes as glass, and right amiable;
Your smiling countenance, so lovely to behold,
To us all is most pleasant and delectable;
Of your commendations who can be weary ?

Hussa, my Mistress Mary, I pray you be merry. Your lips are ruddy as the reddy rose,

Your teeth as white as ever was the whale's bones, So clear, so sweet, so fair, so good, so fresh, so gay, In all Jurie truly at this day there is none.

With a lusty voice sing we dery dery,

Hussa, Mistress Mary, I pray you be merry.

Mary Magdalen.

THE MAID OF KENT

THERE was a maid came out of Kent,
Dainty love, dainty love;

There was a maid came out of Kent,
Dangerous be she.

There was a maid came out of Kent,
Fair, proper, small and gent.

As ever upon the ground went,
For so it should be.

The Longer Thou Livest the
more Fool Thou Art.

I HAVE A PRETTY TITMOUSE

I HAVE a pretty titmouse
Come pecking on my toe.
Gossip with you I purpose
To drink before I go.
Little pretty nightingale,
Among the branches green.
Give us of your Christmas ale,
In the honour of Saint Stephen.

Robin Redbreast with his notes
Singing aloft in the quire,
Warneth to get you frieze coats,
For Winter then draweth near.
My bridle lieth on the shelf,
If you will have any more,
Vouchsafe to sing it yourself,
For here you have all my store.

The Longer Thou Livest the
more Fool Thou Art.

CUPID AND CAMPASPE

CUPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses-Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His Mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws

The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas, become of me?

Alexander and Campaspe.

THE SONG OF BIRDS

WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O'tis the ravished nightingale.

'Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,' she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.