Who, through her beauty bright,
So gloriously did shine,
That she amaz'd my dazzling eyes, 55
She seemed so divine.
She took me by the hand,
And with a modest grace,
"Welcome, sweet Barnwell," then quoth she,
"Unto this homely place. 60
"And since I have thee found
As good as thy word to be,
A homely supper, ere we part,
Thou shalt take here with me."
"O pardon me," quoth I, 65
"Fair mistress, I you pray;
For why, out of my master's house
So long I dare not stay."
"Alas, good sir," she said,
"Are you so strictly ty'd, 70
You may not with your dearest friend
One hour or two abide?
"Faith, then the case is hard;
If it be so," quoth she,
"I would I were a prentice bound, 75
To live along with thee.
"Therefore, my dearest George,
List well what I shall say,
And do not blame a woman much,
Her fancy to bewray. 80
"Let not affection's force
Be counted lewd desire;
Nor think it not immodesty,
I should thy love require."
With that she turn'd aside, 85
And with a blushing red,
A mournful motion she bewray'd
By hanging down her head.
A handkerchief she had,
All wrought with silk and gold, 90
Which she, to stay her trickling tears,
Before her eyes did hold.