SYR ROGERRE.
The sweltrie[21] sonne dothe hie apace hys wayne[22],
From everich beme a seme[23]; of lyfe doe falle;
Swythyn[24] scille[25] oppe the haie uponne the playne;
Methynckes the cockes begynneth to gre[26] talle.
Thys ys alyche oure doome[27]; the great, the smalle, 35
Mofte withe[28] and bee forwyned[29] by deathis darte.
See! the swote[30] flourette[31] hathe noe swote at alle;
Itte wythe the ranke wede bereth evalle[32] parte.
The cravent[33], warrioure, and the wyse be blente[34],
Alyche to drie awaie wythe those theie dyd bemente[35]. 40
MANNE.
All-a-boon[36], Syr Priest, all-a-boon,
Bye yer preestschype nowe saye unto mee;
Syr Gaufryd the knyghte, who lyvethe harde bie,
Whie shoulde hee than mee
Bee moe greate, 45
Inne honnoure, knyghtehoode and estate?
SYR ROGERRE.
Attourne[37] thine eyne arounde thys haied mee,
Tentyflie[38] loke arounde the chaper[39] delle[40];
An answere to thie barganette[41] here see,
Thys welked[42] flourette wylle a leson telle: 50
Arist[43] it blew[44], itte florished, and dyd welle,
Lokeynge ascaunce[45] upon the naighboure greene;
Yet with the deigned[46] greene yttes rennome[47] felle,
Eftsoones[48] ytte shronke upon the daie-brente[49] playne,
Didde not yttes loke, whilest ytte there dyd stonde, 55
To croppe ytte in the bodde move somme dred honde.
Syke[50] ys the waie of lyffe; the loverds[51] ente[52]
Mooveth the robber hym therfor to slea[53];
Gyf thou has ethe[54], the shadowe of contente,
Beleive the trothe[55], theres none moe haile[56] yan thee. 60
Thou wurchest[57]; welle, canne thatte a trobble bee?
Slothe moe wulde jade thee than the roughest daie.
Couldest thou the kivercled[58] of soughlys[59] see,
Thou wouldst eftsoones[60] see trothe ynne whatte I saie;
Botte lette me heere thie waie of lyffe, and thenne 65
Heare thou from me the lyffes of odher menne.
MANNE.
I ryse wythe the sonne,
Lyche hym to dryve the wayne[61],
And eere mie wurche is don
I synge a songe or twayne[62]. 70
I followe the plough-tayle,
Wythe a longe jubb[63] of ale.
Botte of the maydens, oh!
Itte lacketh notte to telle;
Syr Preeste mote notte crie woe, 75
Culde hys bull do as welle.
I daunce the beste heiedeygnes[64],
And foile[65] the wysest feygnes[66].
On everych Seynctes hie daie
Wythe the mynstrelle[67] am I seene, 80
All a footeynge it awaie,
Wythe maydens on the greene.
But oh! I wyshe to be moe greate,
In rennome, tenure, and estate.