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By lure then in finest sort,

He seeks to bring her in;

But if that she full gorged be,
He cannot so her win,

Although with becks, and bending eyes

She many proffers makes,

Wo ho! he cries, away she flies,

And so her leave she takes.

1

This woful man with weary limbs
Runs wandring round about;
At length by noise of chattering pies
His hawk again found out:

His heart was glad his eyes had seen
His falcon swift of flight,

Wo ho! he cries, she empty gorged
Upon his lure doth light,

How glad was then the falconer there,

No pen nor tongue can tell,

He swam in bliss, that lately felt

Like pains of cruel hell.

His hand sometimes upon her train,
Sometimes upon her breast,

Wo ho! he cries, with cheerful voice,

His heart was now at rest.

My dear, likewise behold thy love,
What pains he doth endure,
And now at length let pity move
To stoop unto his lure,

A hood of silk and silver bells,
New gifts I promise thee,
Wo ho! I cry, I come, then say,
Make me as glad as he.

LXXXI.

"A MERY BALLET OF THE HATHORNE TRE."

It was a maid of my country

As she came by a hawthorn tree,
As full of flowers as might be seen,
She marvell'd to see the tree so green,

At last she asked of this tree,
How came this freshness unto thee,
And every branch so fair and clean,
I marvel that you grow so green,

The tree made answer by and by,

I have good cause to grow triumphantly,
The sweetest dew that ever be seen,
Doth fall on me to keep me green.

Yea, quoth the maid, but where you grow, You stand at hand for every blow,

Of

every man for to be seen,

I marvel that you grow so green.

Though many one take flowers from me,
And many a branch out of my tree,
I have such store they will not be seen,
For more and more my twedges grow green.

But how, and they chance to cut thee down,
And carry thy branches into the town?
Then will they never no more be seen,
To grow again so fresh and green.

Though that you do, it is no boot,
Although they cut me to the root,
Next year again I will be seen,
To bud my branches fresh and green.

And you, fair maid, cannot do so,
For if you let your maidhood go,
Then will it never no more be seen,

As I with my branches can grow green.

The maid with that began to blush,,
And turned her from the hawthorn bush,
She thought herself so fair and clean,
Her beauty still would ever grow green.

When that she heard this marvellous doubt,
She wandered still then all about,
Suspecting still what she would ween,
Her maidhead lost would never be seen.

With many a sigh she went her way,
To see how she made herself so gay,
To walk, to see, and to be seen,
And so outfaced the hawthorn green.

Besides all that, it put her in fear,
To talk with company any where,

For fear to lose the thing that should be seen,
To grow as were the hawthorn green.

But after this, never I could hear
Of this fair maiden any where,
That ever she was in forest seen,
To talk again of the hawthorn green.

LXXXII.

THE WOODMAN'S WALK.

THROUGH a fair forest as I went
Upon a summer's day,

I met a woodman quaint and gent,
Yet in a strange array.

I marvell'd much at his disguise,
Whom I did know so well,

But thus in terms both grave and wise,
His mind he 'gan to tell.

Friend, muse not at this fond array,

But list a while to me,

For it hath holped me to survey,
What I shall show to thee.

Long liv'd I in this forest fair,
Till weary of my weal,
Abroad in walks I would repair,
As now I will reveal.

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