Seven Songs of Summer

I would I were Actaeon, whom Diana did disguise,
To walk the woods unknown whereas my lady lies;
A hart of pleasant hue I wish that I were so,
So that my lady knew alone me and no mo;

To follow thick and plain, by hill and dale alow,
To drink the water fain, and feed me with the sloe.
I would not fear the frost, to lie upon the ground,
Delight should quite the cost, what pain so that I found.

The shaling nuts and mast that falleth from the tree
Should serve for my repast, might I my lady see;
Sometime that I might say when I saw her alone,
"Behold thy slave, all day that walks these woods unknown!'

Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
[That hills and valleys, dales and field,
Or woods or steepy mountain yields]1.

[And we will sit upon the rocks]2
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

[And I will]3 make thee beds of roses
[And]4 a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and [a]5 kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

[A gown made of the finest]6 wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
[Fair linèd slippers]7 for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds
[With coral clasps and amber studs:]8
[And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love]9.

[ ... ]

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.

Now sleep, and take thy rest,
Once griev'd and painèd wight,
Since she now loves thee best
Who is thy heart's delight.
Let joy be thy soul's guest,
And care be banish'd quite,
Since she hath thee express'd
To be her favourite.

In an harbour1 grene aslepe whereas I lay
The byrdes sang swete in the middes of the day:
I dreamèd fast of mirth and play.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Me thought I walkèd still to and fro,
And from her company I could not go,
But when I wakèd it was not so.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Therefore my heart is surely pyght2
Of her alone to have a sight
Which is my joy and hearte's delight.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Modernized spelling

In an arbour green asleep whereas I lay
The birds sang sweet in the [middis]3 of the day:
I dreamed fast of mirth and play;
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Methought I walked still to and fro,
And from her company I could not go,
But when I waked it was not so.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Therefore my heart is surely pight 4
Of her alone to have a sight
Which is my joy and heart's delight.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Original version, Lusty Iuventus of youth he syngeth

In a herber grene a sleep where as I lay, 
The byrdes sang swete in y middes of the day,
I dreamed fast of myrth and play,
In youth is plesure, in youth is pleasure.

Me thought I walked stil to and fro, 
And from her company I could not go,
But when I waked it was not so,
In youth is plesure, in youth is plesure.

Therfore my hart is surely pyght
Of her alone to have a sight.
Which is my joy and hartes delyght,
In youth is plesure, in youth is pleasure. Finis.

When daffodils begin to peer -
   With heigh! The doxy over the dale -
Why, then comes the sweet o' the year;
   For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge -
   With heigh! The sweet birds, O how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;
   For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,
   With heigh! with heigh! The thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
   While we lie tumbling in the hay.

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
   The pale moon shines by night:
And when I wander here and there,
   I then do most go right.

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
    And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
   Your sad tires in a mile-a.

I am a poor tiler in simple array,
And get a poor living, but eightpence a day,
My wife as I get it, doth spend it away;
The proverb reporteth, no man can deny
That wedding and hanging is destiny.
And I cannot help it, she saith; wot we why?

I thought when I wed her, she had been a sheep,
At board to be friendly, to sleep when I sleep.
She loves so unkindly, she makes me to weep;
But I dare say nothing, God wot! wot ye why?
The proverb reporteth, no man can deny
That wedding and hanging is destiny.

Besides this unkindness whereof my grief grows,
I think few tilers are match'd with such shrows;
Before she leaves brawling, she falls to deal blows
Which, early and late, doth cause me to cry
The proverb reporteth, no man can deny
That wedding and hanging is destiny.

The more that I please her, the worse she doth like me;
The more I forbear her, the more she doth strike me;
The more that I get her, the more she doth glike me;
Woe worth this ill fortune that maketh me cry
The proverb reporteth, no man can deny
That wedding and hanging is destiny.

If I had been hanged when I had been married,
My torments had ended, though I had miscarried;
If I had been warned, then would I have tarried;
But now all too lately I feel and I cry
The proverb reporteth, no man can deny
That wedding and hanging is destiny.

In a garden so green in a May morning
Heard I my lady pleen of paramours;
Said she: "My love so sweet, come you not yet, nor yet,
Heght you not me to meet amongst the flow'rs?

Eloré, Eloré, Eloré, Eloré,
I love my lusty love, Eloré lo!

Then to my lady blyth did I my presence kyth,
Saying: "My bird be glad! Am I not yours?
So in my armes two did I the lusty jo,
And kissed her times mo than night hath hours.

Eloré, Eloré, Eloré, Eloré,
I love my lusty love, Eloré lo!

Favour and duty unto your bright beauty
Confirmed hath law-tie, oblieged to truth,
So that your soverance, heartlie but variance,
Mark in your memorance mercy and ruth.

Eloré, Eloré, Eloré, Eloré,
I love my lusty love, Eloré lo!

I love for thy fickleness,
And great inconstancy;
For had'st thou been a constant lass,
Then thou had'st ne'er loved me.

I love thee for thy wantonness,
And for thy drollery,
For if thou had'st not loved to sport,
Then thou had'st ne'er loved me.

I love thee for thy poverty,
And for thy want of coin,
For if thou had'st been worth a groat,
Then thou had'st ne'er been mine.

I love thee for thy ugliness,
And for thy foolery,
For if thou had'st been fair or wise,
Then thou had'st ne'er loved me.