THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES.
Notissimum illud Phædri, Gallus quum tauro.
Uppe, lazie loon! 'tis mornynge prime,
The cockke of redde redde combe
This thrice hath crowed—'tis past the time
To drive the olde bulle home.
Goe fling a rope about his hornnes,
And lead him safelie here:
Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes,
Doth angle in the weir.
And, knaves and wenches, stay your din,
Our Ladye is astir:
For hark and hear her mandolin
Behynde the silver fir.
His Spanish hat he bravelie weares,
With feathere droopynge wide,
In doublet fyne, Sir Valentyne
Is seated by her side.
Small care they share, that blissfulle pair;
She dons her kindest smyles;
His songes invite and quite delighte
The wyfe of old Sir Gyles.