1
It fell against a midsomer moneth,
When birds soonge well in every tree,
Our worthë prence, Kinge Henrye,
He roode untoe a chelvellrye.
2
And allsoe toe a forrest soe faire,
Wher his Grace wente toe tak the ayre;
And twentye marchantes of London citie
Then on there knees they kneelled there.