'Rest you still, most gallant lady, Rest you still, and weep no more; Of fair lovers there are plenty;

Spain doth yield a wondrous store.'

'Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, But English men throughout the world are counted kind.

'Leave me not unto a Spaniard;
You alone enjoy my heart;
I am lovely, young, and tender,

And so love is my desert.

Still to serve thee day and night my mind is press'd; The wife of every English man is counted blest.'

'It would be a shame, fair lady,
For to bear a woman hence;
English soldiers never carry
Any such without offence.'

'I will quickly change myself if it be so,
And like a page I'll follow thee where'er thou go.'

'I have neither gold nor silver To maintain thee in this case, And to travel, 'tis great charges,

As you know, in every place.'

'My chains and jewels everyone shall be thine own, And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.'

'On the seas are many dangers; Many storms do there arise, Which will be to ladies dreadful,

And force tears from watery eyes.'

'Well in truth I shall endure extremity,

For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.'

'Courteous lady, be contented;

Here comes all that breeds the strife;

I in England have already

A sweet woman to my wife :

I will not falsify my vow for gold or gain,

Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.

'Oh how happy is that woman,

That enjoys so true a friend! Many days of joy God send you !

Of my suit I'll make an end :

On my knees I pardon crave for this offence, Which did from love and true affection first commence

' Commend me to thy loving lady:

Bear to her this chain of gold, And these bracelets for a token;

Grieving that I was so bold.

All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee,
For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.'

'I will spend my days in prayer,

Love and all her laws defy,

In a nunnery will I shroud me,

Far from any company:

But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.

'Thus farewell, most gentle captain, And farewell my heart's content!

Count not Spanish ladies wayward,

Though to thee my love was bent : Joy and true prosperity go still with thee!' 'The like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady.

Old Ballad

CXVII

LITTLE WHITE LILY

Little white Lily

Sat by a stone,

Drooping and waiting

Till the sun shone.

Little white Lily
Sunshine has fed;
Little white Lily
Is lifting her head.

Little white Lily
Said, 'It is good;
Little white Lily's
Clothing and food.'
Little white Lily,

Drest like a bride!

Shining with whiteness,
And crown'd beside !

Little white Lily
Droopeth with pain,
Waiting and waiting
For the wet rain.
Little white Lily
Holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling
And filling it up.

Little white Lily
Said, 'Good again,
When I am thirsty
To have nice rain;
Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool;

Heat cannot burn me,

My veins are so full.'

Little white Lily

Smells very sweet:

On her head sunshine,
Rain at her feet.

'Thanks to the sunshine,
Thanks to the rain!

Little white Lily

Is happy again!

G. MacDonald

CXVIII

MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA

O sing unto my roundelay;

O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday;

Like a running river be;

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light. Cold he lies in the grave below.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be ;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the night-mares as they go.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See, the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

T. Chatterton