She. Though it be songe of old and yonge, That I sholde be to blame, Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large In hurtynge of my name: For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love In your dystresse, and hevynesse, He. I counceyle you, remember howe Nothynge to dout, but to renne out Wherby to you grete harme myght growe: Yet had I lever than, That I had to the grene wode go, She. I thinke nat, nay, but as ye say, But love may make me for your sake, To come on fote, to hunt, and shote, For so that I your company May have, I aske no more: From which to part, it maketh my hart As colde as ony stone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde He. For an outlawe this is the lawe, go, She. Ryght wele knowe ye, that women be But feble for to fyght; No womanhede it is indede To be bolde as a knyght: I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande, From deth men' many one: He. Yet take good hede; for ever I drede And, us above, none other rofe But a brake bush, or twayne: Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve; She. Syth I have here bene partynere Yet am I sure of one plesure; That, where ye be, me semeth, parde, He. If ye go thyder, ye must consyder, She. Amonge the wylde dere, such ane archere, As men say that ye be, Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle, Where is so grete plente: And water clere of the ryvere Shall be full swete to me; With which in hele I shall ryght wele And, or we go, a bedde or two I can provyde anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde He. Lo yet, before, ye must do more, As cut your here up by your ere, With bowe in hande for to withstande She. I shall as nowe do more for you Where fortunne doth me lede. He. Nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go, Your appetyght is to be lyght Of love, I wele espy; For, lyke as ye have sayed to me, In lyke wyse hardely Ye wolde answere whosoever it were, In way of company. It is sayd of olde, sone hote, sone colde; And so is a woman. Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banyshed man. She. Yf ye take hede, it is no nede For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed, And though that I of auncestry Yet have you proved howe I you loved And ever shall, whatso befall; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, He. A baron's chylde to be begylde! Yet better were, the pore squyere Than ye sholde say another day, That, by my cursed dede, Ye were betray'd: wherfore, good mayd, Is, that I to the grene wode go, She. Whatever befall, I never shall Of this thyng you upbrayd; But yf ye go, and leve me so, Than have ye me betray'd. Remember you wele, howe that ye dele; For, yf ye, as ye sayd, Be so unkynde, to leve behynde, Your love, the not-browne mayd, Trust me truly, that I shall dy Sone after ye be gone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde |