Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne;1
Affyrmynge this, how that it is

A labour spent in vayne,

To love them wele; for never a dele

They love a man agayne:

For late a man do what he can,

Theyr favour to attayne,
Yet, yf a newe do them persue,

Theyr first true lover than

Laboureth for nought; for from her thought

He is a banyshed man.

I say nat nay, but that all day

It is bothe writ and sayd

That womans faith is, as who sayth,

All utterly decayd;

But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnèsse
In this case might be layd,

That they love true, and continùe:
Recorde the Not-browne Mayde:
Which, when her love came, her to prove,
To her to make his mone,

Wolde nat depart; for in her hart
She loved but hym alone.

Than betwaine us late us dyscus
What was all the manere
Betwayne them two: we wyll also
Tell all the payne, and fere,
That she was in. Nowe I begyn,

So that ye me answère;

Ver. 2, Woman. Prolusions, and Mr. West's copy.-Ver. 11, her, i.e. their. 1 My friend Mr Farmer proposes to read the first lines thus as a Latinism:

Be it right or wrong, 'tis men among,

On women to complayne.

Wherfore, all ye, that present be
I pray you, gyve an ere.

'I am the knyght; I come by nyght,
As secret as I can;

Sayinge, Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banyshed man.'

SHE.

And I your wyll for to fulfyll

In this wyll nat refuse;

Trustying to shewe, in wordès fewe,

That men have an yll use

(To theyr own shame) women to blame, And causelesse them accuse:

Therfore to you I answere nowe,

All women to excuse,

35

40

Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? 45 I pray you, tell anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

HE.

It standeth so; a dede is do

Wherof grete harme shall growe:

My destiny is for to dy

A shamefull deth, I trowe;

Or elles to fle: the one must be.

None other way I knowe,

But to withdrawe as an outlawe,

And take me to my bowe.
Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true!
None other rede I can:
For I must to the grene
Alone, a banyshed man.

wode go,

SHE.

O lord, what is thys worldys blysse,

That changeth as the mone!

My somers day in lusty may

Is derked before the none.

I here you say, farewell: Nay, nay,
We depart nat so sone.

Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go?
Alas! what have ye done?

All my welfàre to sorrowe and care

Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

HE.

I can beleve, it shall you greve,
And somewhat you dystrayne;
But, aftyrwarde, your paynès harde
Within a day or twayne

Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take

Comfort to you agayne.

Why sholde

ye ought? for, to make thought,

Your labour were in vayne.

And thus I do; and pray you to,

As hartely, as I can;

For I must to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.

SHE.

Now, syth that ye have shewed to me

The secret of your mynde,

I shall be playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shall me fynde.

Ver. 63, The somers, Prol.

90

Syth it is so, that ye wyll go,

I wolle not leve behynde;

Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayd

Was to her love unkynde:
Make you redy, for so am I,

Allthough it were anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.

HE.

Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyll thynke, and say:
Of yonge, and olde it shall be tolde,

That ye be gone away,

Your wanton wyll for to fulfill,

In grene wode you to play;

And that ye myght from your delyght

No lenger make delay.

Rather than ye sholde thus for me

Be called an yll woman,

Yet wolde I to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.

110

SHE.

Though it be songe of old and yongo,

That I sholde be to blame,

Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large

In hurtynge of my name:

For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love

It is devoyd of shame;

In your dystresse, and hevynesse,

To part with you, the same:

Ver. 91, Shall it never. Prol. and Mr. W.-Ver. 94, Althought. Mr. W.

115

And sure all tho, that do not so,
True lovers are they none;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

HE.

I counceyle you, remember howe,
It is no maydens lawe,

Nothynge to dout, but to renne out
To wode with an outlàwe:

For ye must there in your hand bere

A bowe, redy to drawe;

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125

And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve,

To come on fote, to hunt, and shote

To gete us mete in store;

For so that I your company

May have, I ask no more:

From which to part, it maketh my hart

As colde as ony stone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

140

Ver. 117, To shewe all. Prol. and Mr. W.-Ver. 133, I say nat. Prol. and