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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 saythfulle love

It is devoy'd of shaine;
In your dystresse, and hevynesse,

To part with you, the same;
And sure all tho' that do not so,

True lovers are they none:
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

He. I counceyle you, remember howe

It is no maydens lawe,
Nothynge to dout, but to renne out

To wode with an outlawe:
For ye must there in your hand bere

A bowe, redy to drawe;
And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve,

Ever in drede and awe;
Wherby to you grete harme myght growe:

Yet had I lever than,
That I had to the

grene
wode

go,
Alone, a banyshed man.

She. I thinke nat, nay, but as ye say,

It is no maydens lore:
But love may make me for your sake,

As I have sayd before
To come on fote, to hunt, and shote,

To gete us mete in store;
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

I love but you alone.

He. For an outlawe this is the lawe,

That men hynı take and bynde;
Without pyte, hanged to be,

And waver with the wynde.
If I had nede, (as God forbede !)

What rescous coude ye fynde?
Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe

For fere wolde drawe behyude: And no mervayle: for lytell avayle

Were in your counceyle than: Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode

go, Alone, a banyshed man.

She. Ryght wele knowe ye, that women be

But feble for to fyght;
No womanhede it is indede

To be bolde as a knyght:
Yet, in such fere yf that ye were

With enemyes day or nyght,
I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande,

To greve them as I myght,
And you to save; as women have

From deth 'men' many one:
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

He. Yet take good hede; for ever I drede

That ye coude nat sustayne
The thornie wayes, the depe valeies,

The snowe, the frost, the rayne,
The colde, the hete: for dry, or wete,

We must lodge on the playne; And, us above, none other rofe

But a brake bush, or twayne:
Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve;

And ye wolde gladly than
That I had to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.

She. Syth I have here bene partynere

With you of joy and blysse,
I must also parte of your wo

Endure, as reson is:
Yet am I sure of one plesure;

And, shortely, it is this:
That, where ye be, me semeth, parde,

I coude nat fare amysse.
Without more speche, I you beseche

That we were sone agone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you

alone.

ye

He. If ye go thyder, ye must consyder,

When have lust to dyne, There shall no mete be for you gete,

Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne.
Ne shetes clene, to lye betwene,

Maden of threde and twyne;
None other house, but leves and bowes,

To cover your hed and myne.
O myne harte swete, this evyll dyete

Sholde make you pale and wan;
Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.

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

Endure, as ye shall see:
And, or we go, a bedde or two

I can provyde anone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

He. Lo yet, before, ye must do more,

Yf ye wyll go with me:
As cut your here up by your ere,

Your kyrtel by the kne;
With bowe in hande for to withstande

Your enemyes, yf nede be:
And this same nyght before day-lyght,

To wode-warde wyll I fle.
Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill,

Do it shortely as ye can; Els wyll I to the grene

wode

go, Alone, a banyshed man.

She. I shall as nowe do more for you

Than longeth to womanhede;
To shorte my here, a bowe to bere,

To shote in tyme of nede.
O my swete mother, before all other
For
you

I have most drede:
But nowe, adue! I must ensue,

Where fortunne doth me lede.
All this make ye: now let us fle;

The day cometh fast upon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but

you

alone.

He. Nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go,

And I shall tell ye why,
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

Such wordes to say by me;
For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed,

Or I you loved, parde:
And though that I of auncestry

A baron's daughter be,
Yet have you proved howe I you loved

A squyer of lowe degre;
And ever shall, whatso befall;

To dy therfore anone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but

you

alone.

He. A baron's chylde to be begylde !

It were a cursed dede;
To be felawe with an outlawe!

Almighty God forbede!
Yet better were, the pore squyere

Alone to forest yede,
Than

ye

sholde say another day, That, by my cursed dede, Ye were betray'd: wherfore, good mayd,

The best rede that I can,
Is, that I to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.

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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

I love but you alone.

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