Woo. His shackles will betray him, he'll be taken,
And what shall I do then? I'll bring a beavy,
A hundred black-ey'd Maids that love as I do
With Chaplets on their heads [of] Daffadillies,
With cherry lips, and cheeks of Damask Roses,
And all we'll dance an Antique 'fore the Duke,
And beg his pardon; then she talk'd of you, Sir;
That you must lose your head to morrow morning
And she must gather Flowers to bury you,
And see the house made handsome, then she sung
Nothing but willow, willow, willow, and between
Ever was, Palamon, fair Palamon,
And Palamon, was a tall young man. The place
Was knee deep where she sate; her careless Tresses,
A wrea[th] of Bull-rush rounded; about her stuck
Thousand fresh Water Flowers of several colours.
That methought she appear'd like the fair Nymph
That feeds the lake with waters, or as Iris
Newly dropt down from heaven; Rings she made
Of Rushes that grew by, and to 'em spoke
The prettiest posies: thus our true love's ty'd,
This you may loose, not me, and many a one:
And then she wept, and sung again, and sigh'd,
And with the same breath smil'd, and kist her hand.
2 Fr. Alas what pity it is?
Woo. I made in to her,
She saw me, and straight sought the flood, I sav'd her,
And set her safe to land: when presently
She slipt away, and to the City made,
With such a cry, and swiftness, that believe me
She left me far behind her; three, or four,
I saw from far off cross her, one of 'em
I knew to be your brother, where [she] staid,
And fell, scarce to be got away: I left them with her.
Enter Brother, Daughter, and others.
And hither came to tell you: Here they are.
Daugh. May you never more enjoy the light, &c.
Is not this a fine Song?
Bro. Oh, a very fine one.
Daugh. I can sing twenty more.
Bro. I think you can.
Daugh. Yes truly can I, I can sing the Broom,
And Bonny Robbin. Are not you a Tailor?