Stuck her coffin with flowers great plenty.

The Cuckow sung in verse

An Epitaph ore her herse,

But assure you the lines were not dainty.

From the same.

SONG.

Ye little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shadie valleyes,

And see how Phillis sweetly walkes
Within her garden alleyes.

Goe pretie birds about her bowre,
Sing pretie birds, she may not lowre.

Ah me, me thinkes I see her frowne,
Ye pretie wantons warble.

Go tell her through your chirping billes,
As you by me are bidden,

To her is only knowne my love,

Which from the world is hidden.

Goe pretie birds and tell her so,

See that your notes straine not too low,
For still me thinke I see her frowne;
Ye pretie wantons warble.

Goe tune your voices harmonie,

And sing I am her Lover;

Straine lowde and sweet, that every note,

With sweet content may move her;

And shee that hath the sweetest voyce,

Tell her I will not change my choice,

Yet still me thinkes I see her frowne;
Ye pretie wantons warble.

6

O fie,

O flie, make haste, see see she falles
Into a pretie slumber;

Sing round about her rosie bed,
That waking she may wonder;

Say to her tis her lover true,
That sendeth love to you to you;

And when you heare her kinde reply,

Returne with pleasant warblings.

From the Fayre Maide of the Exchange.

1615.

SONG.

Goe walke the path of plaint; goe wander wretched now In uncoth waies, blind corners, fit for such a wretch as thou. There feede upon thy woe, fresh thoughts shall be thy fare; Musing shall be thy waiting maide, thy carver shall be care; Thy dainty dishe shall be of fretting melancholie, And broken sobs, with hollow sighs, thy savery sauce shall be.

From the Rare Triumphs of Love and Fortune. A unique copy in possession of Lord Stafford.

SONG.

Peace, wayward bairn: O cease thy mone,
Thy far more wayward daddys gone,

And never will recalled be,

By cries of either thee or me.

For 'should we cry

Until we dye,

We could not scant his cruelty.

Bellow, Bellow, &c.

And could he then though me foregoe,
His infant leave, ere he did know

How like the dad

Would be the lad,

In time to make fond maidens glad.

Bellow, Bellow.

From the Northern Lass, or the Nest of Fools.

1606.

SONG.

Come pious mourner, pray no more,

But let the Gods alone,

You favours endlessly implore,

But will be granting none.

Can you expect from any king,

To gain whatere you crave;
Who dare, when you your offerings bring,
Torment and wound his slave?

You ask of heaven eternal crowns,

As your devotions due;

And yet can wound me with your frowns,

For asking smiles of you.

From

To the wedding, to the wedding, to the wedding go we,
To the wedding a begging, a begging all three.
Tom Beggar shall brave it, and Willy will too,
Simplicite shall knave it where ever we go
With lustily bravado take care that care will,
To catch it and snatch it we have the brave skill.

Our fingers are lime twigges, and barbers we be To catch sheetes fra hedges most pleasant to see Then to the alewife roundly we set them to sale, And spend the money merily upon her good ale. To the wedding, to the wedding, to the wedding go we, To the wedding a begging, a begging all three.

From a pythie and pleasant Comœdie- of the Three Ladies of London. In black letter. Written by R. W. 1592.

SONG.

New broomes, greene broomes, will you buy any;
Come maidens, come quickly, let me take a penny.
My broomes are not steeped

But very well bound,

My broomes be not crooked
But smooth cut and round,
C 4

I wish

I wish it should please you

To buy of my broome,
Then would it well ease me
If market were done,

Have you any old bootes
Or any old shoes,
Pouch, rings, or bussins,
To cope for new broomes?
If so you have maydens,
I pray you bring hither,
That you and I friendly

May bargen together.

New brooms, greene broomes, will you buy any,
Come maydens, come quickly, let me take a penny.

From the same,

SONG.

Happy times we live to see,
Whose master is simplicity;
This is the age where blessings flow,
In joy we reape, in woe wee sow;
Wee doe good deeds without delay,
Wee promise and we keepe our day;
We love for vertue, not for wealth;

Wee drinke no healths, but all for health;

Wee sing, wee dance, wee pipe, wee play,
Our works continuall holiday;

Wee live in poore contented sort,
Yet neither beg nor come at Court,

From