Then underneath her window a lute tinkled and a voice sang:—
"The birdies small
Do singen all,
The throstle chirpeth cheerly to his make,
The lark hath leave to carol to the sun:
I would I were that joly[1] gentil one,
Piping thy praise unchid!
I 'd wake,
To climb my heav'n or ever day doth break.
But I 'm forbid.
"The birdies small
Do singen all,
The trilly nightingale doth tell the moon
His love-longing, nor hush him all the night:
I would I were that tuneful manner wight,
Within a rose-tree hid!
So soon
Thou wouldst be wishing every night were June!
But I 'm forbid.
"The birdies small
Do singen all,
No throstle, I, nor nightingale, nor lark,—
Yet fain to twitter, fain to softly peep
Of love; and needs must loathly silence keep:
Ne never no bird did.
'T is dark;
'T is sleepy night,—I 'll whisper only, 'Hark!'
But I 'm forbid."
Calote lay still as a stone: only her hair moved where it veiled her lips. From the tavern across the way there came sounds of merriment and a banging of doors. The light from passing torches flickered up among the shadows in the gabled ceiling of the little room. Then the footsteps died away. Calote sighed, and made as to rise; and again the lute tinkled. This second song was in the swinging measure that the common folk loved, a measure somewhat scorned in Richard's court; but the squire had good reason for the using of it He twanged his lute right loud and sang:—
"It fell upon Midsummer's Eve,
When wee folk dance and dead folk wake,
I wreathed me in a gay garland,
All for my true love's sake.
"I donned my coat with sleevès wide,
And fetysly forth I stole:—
But first I looked in my steel glass,
And there I saw my soul.
"I blinkèd once, I blinkèd twice,
I turned as white as milk:
My soul he was in russet clad,
And I was clad in silk.
"Now prythee tell me, soul of mine,—
Wherefore so sober cheer?—
To-night is night of love's delight,
And we go to see my Dear.
"Put on, put on thy broidered gown,
Thy feathered cap, thy pointed shoon;
The bells have rung eleven past,
Let us begone right soon.