"I wot, true love, I gied to thee."
"Your faith and troth ye sall never get,
"Nor our true love sall never twin,
"Until ye come within my bower,
"And kiss me cheik and chin."
"My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,
"It has the smell, now, of the ground;
"And if I kiss thy comely mouth,
"Thy days of life will not be lang.
"O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,