He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter clepéd Dowsabell,
A maiden fair and free.
And for she was her fathers heir,
Full well she was yconned [93a] the leir [93b]
Of mickle courtesie.
The silk well couth she twist and twine,
And make the finé marché pine, [93c]
And with the needle work;
And she couth help the priest to say
His matins on a holiday,
And sing a psalm in kirk.
She ware a frock of frolic green
Might well become a maiden queen,
Which seemly was to see;
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the columbine,
Inwrought full featously.
Her features all as fresh above
As is the grass that grows by Dove,
And lithe as lass of Kent.
Her skin as soft as Lemster [94a] wool,
And white as snow on Peakish hull, [94b]
Or swan that swims in Trent.
This maiden, in a morn betime,
Went forth, when May was in the prime,
To get sweet setiwall, [94c]
The honeysuckle, the harlock, [94d]
The lily and the lady-smock, [94k]
To deck her summer-hall. [94e]
Thus, as she wandered here and there,
And pickéd of the bloomy brere,
She chancéd to espy
A shepherd sitting on a bank,
Like chanticleer he crowéd crank, [94f]
And piped full merrily.
He learned his sheep [94g] as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feed about him round,
Whilst he full many a carol sang,
Until the fields and meadows rang,
And that the woods did sound.
In favour this same shepherd swain
Was like the bedlam Tamburlaine
Which held proud kings in awe.
But meek as any lamb mought be,
And innocent of ill as he
Whom his lewd brother slaw.
This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloke,
Which was of the finest loke
That could be cut with shear;
His mittens were of bauzon’s [94h] skin,
His cockers [94i] were of cordiwin, [94j]
His hood of minivere.
His awl and lingell [95a] in a thong;
His tarbox on his broadbelt hung,
His breech of Cointree blue.
Full crisp and curléd were his locks,
His brows as white as Albion rocks,
So like a lover true.