And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was y-cond the leyre
Of mickle curtesie.
The silke well couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine march-pine,
And with the needle werke;
And she couth helpe the priest to say
His mattins on a holy-day,
And sing a psalme in kirke.
She ware a frock of frolicke greene,
Might well beseeme a mayden queene,
Which seemly was to see;
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
Y-wrought full featously.
Her features all as fresh above,
As is the grasse that growes by Dove;
And lyth as lasse of Kent.
Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on Peakish Hull,
Or swanne that swims in Trent.
This mayden in a morne betime
Went forth, when May was in her prime,
To get sweete cetywall,
The honey-suckle, the harlocke,
The lilly and the lady-smocke,
To deck her summer hall.
Thus, as she wandred here and there,
Y-picking of the bloomed breere,
She chanced to espie
A shepheard sitting on a bancke,
Like chanteclere he crowed crancke,
And pip'd full merrilie.
He lear'd his sheepe as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feede about him round;
Whilst he full many a carroll sung,
Untill the fields and medowes rung,
And all the woods did sound.
In favour this same shepheards swayne
Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,[3]
Which helde prowd kings in awe:
But meeke he was as lamb mought be;
An innocent of ill as he[4]
Whom his lewd brother slaw.
The shepheard ware a sheepe-gray cloke,
Which was of the finest loke,