Peterisms: second set

I mun be married a Sunday,
Whosoever shall come that way,
I mun be married a Sunday.

Roister Doister is my name,
A lusty brute I am the same,
I mun be married a Sunday.

Christian Custance have I found,
A widow worth a thousand pound,
I mun be married a Sunday.

Custance is as sweet as honey,
I her lamb and she my coney;
I mun be married a Sunday.

When we shall make our wedding feast,
There shall be cheer for man and beast;
I mun be married a Sunday.

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! The sweet Spring!

In an harbour 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 pyght
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 middès 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 
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.