While he dressed he sang an ancient ballad, at the top of his voice, to an air he improvised.
"Phillida was a fair maide
As fresh as any flower;
Whom Harpalus the herd-man praide
To be his paramoure.
"Harpalus and eke Corin,
Were herd-men both ysere;
And Phillida would twist and spinne,
And thereto sing ful clere.
"Phyllis!" cried John. "Can you hear in the bedroom? I sing of thee!"
"I thought her name was Phillida," said Phyllis, setting the bedroom door ajar.
"Phillida is Old English for Phyllis," he explained.
"Oh!" said Phyllis.
"But Phillida was al to coye,
For Harpalus to winne;
For Corin was her only joye,
Who forst her not a pinne.
"How often would she flowers twine!
How often garlants make
Of cowslips and of columbine;
And all for Corin's sake.
"Harpalus prevayled nought,
His labour all was lost;
For he was farthest from her thought,
And yet he loved her most.