The Men: Sing high, sing low, sing merrily—hey!
And cheerily let us sing,
While youth is youth then youth is gay
And youth shall have his fling.
Robin: The merry merle on leafy spray,
The lark on fluttering wing
Do pipe a joyous roundelay,
To greet the blithesome spring.
Hence, hence cold Age, black Care—away!
Cold Age black Care doth bring;
When back is bowed and head is grey,
Black Care doth clasp and cling.
Black Care doth rosy Pleasure stay,
Age ageth everything;
'T is farewell sport and holiday,
On flowery mead and ling.
If Death must come, then come he may,
And wed with death-cold ring,
Yet ere our youth and strength decay,
Blithe Joy shall be our king.
The Men: Sing high, sing low, sing merrily—hey!
And cheerily we will sing.
So they marched blithely away, a right joyous company, flashing back the sunset glory from bright headpiece and sword-blade, while Jocelyn stood watching wistful-eyed until they were lost amid the green, until all sounds of their going grew to a hush mingling with the whisper of leaves and murmurous gurgle of the brook; and ever the shadows deepened about him, a purple solitude of misty trees and tangled thickets, depth on depth, fading to a glimmering mystery.
Suddenly amid these glooming shadows a shadow moved, and forth into the darkling glade, mighty club on mighty shoulder, stepped Lobkyn Lollo the Dwarf, and his eyes were pensive and he sighed gustily.
“Alack!” quoth he:
“So here's an end of outlawry,
And all along o' lady,
Yet still an outlaw I will be
Shut in o' shaws so shady.
And yet it is great shame, I trow,
That our good friends should freemen go
And leave us lonely to our woe,
And all along o' lady.
“And plague upon this love, I say,
For stealing thus thy friend away,
And since fast caught and wed is he
Thy friend henceforth is lost to thee,
And thou, poor Fool, dost mope and sigh,
And so a plague on love! say I.”
“Nay, good Lobkyn, what know you of love?” Answered LOBKYN:
“Marry, enough o' love know I
To steal away if love be nigh.
“For love's an ill as light as air,
Yet heavy as a stone;
O, love is joy and love is care,
A song and eke a groan.
“Love is a sickness, I surmise,
Taketh a man first by the eyes,
And stealing thence into his heart,
There gripeth him with bitter smart.
Alas, poor soul,
What bitter dole,
Doth plague his every part!
“From heart to liver next it goes,
And fills him full o' windy woes,
And, being full o' gusty pain,
He groaneth oft, and sighs amain,
Poor soul is he
In verity,
And for his freedom sighs in vain.”
“Miscall not love, Lobkyn, for sure True-love is
every man's birthright.”
Quoth LOBKYN:
“Why then, methinks there's many a wight
That cheated is of his birthright,
As, item first, here's Lobkyn Lollo
To prove thine argument quite hollow.
Dare I at maid to cast mine eye,
She mocketh me, and off doth fly,
And all because I'm humped o' back,
And something to my stature lack.
Thus, though I'm stronger man than three,
No maid may love the likes o' me.
Next, there's thyself—a Fool, I swear,
At fight or song beyond compare.
But—thou 'rt unlovely o' thy look,
And this no maid will ever brook.
So thou and I, for weal or woe,
To our lives' end unloved must go.
But think ye that I grieve or sigh?
Not so! A plague on love, say I!”