Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yannes the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Alle under the wyllowe tree.

25

30

35

40

555

Though pressed with hunger oft, or come-
lier clothes,
Though pinched with cold, asks never.-
Kate is crazed.

I see a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 560 Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race!

They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 565 Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched

The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide

To conjure clean away the gold they touch, Conveying worthless dross into its place; Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.

Strange! that a creature rational, and cast In human mould, should brutalize by choice 575

His nature, and, though capable of arts By which the world might profit and himself,

Self-banished from society, prefer
Such squalid sloth to honorable toil!
Yet even these, though, feigning sickness
oft,

580 They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,

And vex their flesh with artificial sores, Can change their whine into a mirthful