I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi' silk speid,
The comely youth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, 205
As gin he were mine ain;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day
On which the youth was slain.]
[The following is copied from the Folio MS. (ed. H. & F. vol. 2. pp. 502-506.)
Childe Maurice hunted ithe siluen wood,
he hunted itt round about,
& noebodye that he ffound therin,
nor none there was with-out. 4
& he tooke his siluer combe in his hand,
to kembe his yellow lockes;
he sayes, "come hither, thou litle ffoot page,
that runneth lowlye by my knee; 8
ffor thou shalt goe to Iohn stewards wiffe
& pray her speake with mee.
"& as itt ffalls out many times,
as knotts beene knitt on a kell, 12
or Marchant men gone to Leeue London
either to buy ware or sell,
"I, and greete thou doe that Ladye well,
euer soe well ffroe mee,— 16
And as itt ffalles out many times
as any hart can thinke,
"as schoole masters are in any schoole house
writting with pen and Iinke,— 20
ffor if I might, as well as shee may,
this night I wold with her speake.
"& heere I send her a mantle of greene,
as greene as any grasse, 24
& bidd her come to the siluer wood
to hunt with Child Maurice;