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But now it is not worth a groate;

I have had itt four-and-forty yeare.
Sometime it was of cloth in graine,

'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see,
It will neither hold nor winde nor raine-
And Ile have a new cloake about mee.

She. It is four-and-forty yeeres agoe

Since the one of us the other did ken,
And we have had betwixt us towe
Of children either nine or ten;

We have brought them up to women and men,
In the fere of God I trowe they bee,
And why wilt thou thyself misken-
Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

He. O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute,
Now is now, and then was then;
Seeke now all the world throughout,

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen,
They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,
Soe far above their owne degree-

Once in my life Ile do as they,

For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

She. King Stephen was a worthy peere,

His breeches cost him but a crowne,
He held them sixpence all too deere,
Therefore he call'd the tailor loon.
He was a wight of high renowne,

And thouse but of a low degree

Its pride that putts this countrye downe-
Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

He. Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can ;

And oft to live a quiet life

I'm forced to yield though I bee good-man.
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threepe,
Unless he first give o'er the plea;

As we began sae will wee leave

And Ile take my old cloake about mee.

Anonymous-16th century.

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MEDLEY.

I care not for the fan or mask,
When Titan's heat reflecteth;
A homely hat is all I ask,

Which well my face protecteth;
Yet I am in my country guise
Esteemed lasse as pretty
As those that every day devise
New shapes in court or city.

In every season of the year

I undergo my labor;

No shower nor wind at all I fear,
My limbs I do not favor.

If summer's heat my beauty stain,
It makes me ne'er the sicker,

Sith I can wash it off again

With a cup of Christmas liquor.

375

From a black-letter copy in the Assigns of Symcocke.

HARVEST SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Sickles sound;

On the ground

Fast the ripe ears fall;

Every maiden's bonnet
Has blue blossoms on it-

Joy is over all.

Sickles ring,

Maidens sing

To the sickle's sound;
Till the moon is beaming,
And the stubble gleaming,
Harvest songs go round.

All are springing,
All are singing
Every lisping thing;
Man and master meat

From one dish they eat;

Each is now a king.

Hans and Michael

Whet the sickle,

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SERVIAN

SONG OF THE PEASANT'S WIFE,

Come, companion, let us hurry,
That we may be early home;
For my mother-in-law is cross!
Only yestreen she accused me

Said that I had beat my husband,

When, poor soul, I had not touched him;
Only bid him wash the dishes,

And he would not wash the dishes;

Threw, then, at his head the pitcher;,
Knocked a hole in head and pitcher;
For the head I do not care much;
But I care much for the pitcher,
As I paid for it right dearly-
Paid for it with one wild apple-

Yes, and half a one besides.

Translated by TALVI.

LINES.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways,

Beside the springs of Dove;

A maid whom there were none to praise.
And very few to love:

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