How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle bat and’ staff
And his sandal shoon.
Say you? Nay, pray You mark.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
Pray you mark.
White his shroud as the mountain snow-
Larded all with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did not go
With true-love showers.
Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.
Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
God be at your table!
Pray let’s have no words of this;
but when they ask, you what it means, say you this:
To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning bedtime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose and donn’d his clo’es
And dupp’d the chamber door,
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
Indeed, la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t!
By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will do’t if they come to’t
By Cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, ‘Before you tumbled me,
You promis’d me to wed.’
‘So would I ‘a’ done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.’
I hope all will be well. We must be patient;
but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i’ th’ cold ground.
My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel.
Come, my coach! Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet ladies.
Good night, good night.