I have spent all my golden time
In writing many a loving rime,
I have consumed all my youth
In vowing of my faith and trueth:
O willow, willow, willow tree,
Yet can I not beleeved bee.

And now alas it is too late,
Gray hayres, the messenger of fate,
Bid me to set my heart at rest,
For beautie loveth yong men best:
O willow willow I must die,
Thy servant's happier farre then I.

XIV.

"THE DECEASED MAIDEN LOVER.

Being a pleasant new Court-song."

[From a black letter copy printed for the assigns of Thomas Symcocke.]

As I went forth one summer's day,

To view the meadows fresh and gay, A pleasant bower I espied,

Standing hard by a river side, And in 't a maiden I heard cry,

Alas there's none ere lov'd like I.

I couched close to hear her moan,

With many a sigh and heavy groan, And wisht that I had been the wight,

That might have bred her heart's delight, But these were all the words that she

Did still repeat, None loves like me.

Then round the meadows did she walk,
Catching each flower by the stalk,
Such as within the meadows grew,

As dead-man's thumb and hare-bell blue,
And as she pluckt them, still cried she,
Alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.

A bed therein she made to lie,

Of fine green things that grew fast by,
Of poplar's and of willow leaves,
Of sicamore and flaggy sheaves,

And as she pluckt them, still cried she,
Alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.

The little larkfoot she'd not pass,

Nor yet the flowers of three-leaved grass, With milkmaids honey-suckle's phrase, The crow's-foot, nor the yellow crayse, And as she pluckt them, still cried she, Alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.

The pretty daisy which doth shew
Her love to Phoebus bred her woe,
Who joys to see his chearful face,

And mourns when he is not in place,
Alack, alack, alack, quoth she,

There's none that ever loves like me.

The flowers of the sweetest scent,

She bound them round with knotted bent, And as she laid them still in bands,

She wept, she wail'd, and wrung her hands, Alas, alas, alas, quoth she,

There's none that ever lov'd like me.

False man (quoth she), forgive thee heaven, As I do wish my sins forgiven,

In blest Elysium I shall sleep,

When thou with perjured souls shall weep,

Who when they liv'd did like to thee,

That lov'd their loves as thou dost me.

When she had fill'd her apron full,

Of such sweet flowers as she could cull,
The green leaves serv'd her for a bed,
The flowers pillows for her head,
Then down she lay, ne'er more did speak,
Alas with love her heart did break,

When I had seen this virgin's end,
I sorrowed as became a friend,
And wept to see that such a maid
Should be by faithless love betray'd,
But woe I fear will come to thee,
That was not in love, as she.

The birds did cease their harmony,

The harmless lambs did seem to cry, The flowers they did hang their head,

The flower of maidens being dead, Whose life by death is now set free,

And none did love more dear than she.

The bubbling brooks did seem to moan, And Echo from the vales did groan, Diana's nymphs did ring her knell,

And to their queen the same did tell, Who vowed by her chastity,

That none should take revenge but she.

When as I saw her corpse was cold,
I to her lover went, and told

What chance unto this maid befell,
Who said I'm glad she sped so well,
D'ye think that I so fond would be
To love no maid, but only she.

I was not made for her alone,

I take delight to hear them moan,
When one is gone I will have more,
That man is rich that hath most store,

I bondage hate, I must live free,
And not be tied to such as she.

O, Sir, remember then (quoth I)
The power of heaven's all-seeing eye,
Who doth remember vows forgot,
Though you deny you know it not,
Call you to mind this maiden free,

The which was wrong'd by none but thee.

Quoth he, I have a love more fair,
Besides she is her father's heir,
A bonny lass doth please my mind,
That unto me is wondrous kind,
Her will I love, and none but she,
Who welcome still shall be to me.

False minded man that so would prove
Disloyal to thy dearest love,