That could he cut with sheere:
His mittens were of bauzens skinne,
His cockers were of cordiwin,
His hood of meniveere.
His aule and lingell in a thong,
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,
His breech of coyntrie blewe:
Full crispe and curled were his lockes,
His browes as white as Albion rocks:
So like a lover true,
And pyping still he spent the day,
So merry as the popingay;
Which liked Dowsabel:
That would she ought, or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought
She in love-longing fell.
At length she tucked up her frocke,
White as a lilly was her smocke,
She drew the shepheard nye;
But then the shepheard pyp'd a good,
That all his sheepe forsooke their foode,
To heare his melodye.
"Thy sheepe," quoth she, "cannot be leane,
That have a jolly shepherds swayne,
The which can pipe so well."
"Yea but," sayth he, "their shepheard may,
If pyping thus he pine away
In love of Dowsabel."
"Of love, fond boy, take thou no keepe,"
Quoth she; "looke thou unto thy sheepe,
Lest they should hap to stray."
Quoth he, "So had I done full well,
Had I not seen fayre Dowsabell
Come forth to gather maye."
With that she gan to vaile her head,
Her cheeks were like the roses red,
But not a word she sayd.
With that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
And on the ground him layd.
Sayth she, "I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer-hall undight,
And all for long of thee."
"My coate," sayth he, "nor yet my fouled
Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,
Except thou favour mee."