Jacke and Jone they think no ill,
But loving live, and merry still:
Doe their weeke days worke and pray
Devotedly on the holy day:
Skip and trip it on the grene,
And help to chorus the Summer Queene:
Lash out at a Country Feast
Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy Ale
And tell at large a Winter tale:
Climbe up to the Apple loft,
And turne the Crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the fathers joy,
And little Tom the mothers boy:
All their pleasure is content,
And care to pay their yearely rent.

Jone can call by name her Cowes,
And decke her windows with greene Boughs,
Shee can wreaths and tuttyes[nosegays] make,
And trimme with plums a Bridal Cake.
Jacke knows what brings gaine or losse,
And his long Flaile can stoutly tosse,
Make the hedge which others breake,
And ever thinkes what he doth speake.

Now you Courtly Dames and Knights,
That study onely strange delights,
Though you scorne the home-spun gray,
And revell in your rich array,
Though your tongues dissemble deepe,
And can your heads from danger keepe;
Yet for all your pompe and traine,
Securer lives the silly swaine.
All Lookes be pale

All Lookes be pale, harts cold as stone,
For Hally now is dead, and gone,
Hally in whose sight, most sweet sight,
All the earth late tooke deloght.
Ev'ry eye weepe with mee,
Joyes drown'd in teares must be.

His Iv'ry skin, his comely hayre,
His Rosie cheekes, so cleare and faire:
Eyes that once did grace his bright face,
Now in him all want theire place.
Eyes and hearts weepe with mee,
For who so kinde as hee?

His youth was like an Aprill flowre,
Adorn'd with beauty, love and powre,
Glory strow'd his way, whose wreaths gay
Now are all turn'd to decay.
Then againe weepe with mee,
None feele more cause than wee.

No more may his wisht sight returne,
His golden Lampe no more can burne;
Quenched is all his flame, his hop't fame
Now hath left him nought but name.
For him all weepe with mee,
Since more him none shall see.