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Where gripinge grefes the hart wounde, And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse, There music with her silver sound With spede is wont to send redresse.
"What is thy name, faire maid?" quoth he. "Penelophon, O King!" quoth she.
Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrowe is in vaine; For violets pluckt, the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe.
We 'll shine in more substantial honours, And to be noble we 'll be good.
The blinded boy that shootes so trim, From heaven downe did hie.
Shall I bid her goe? What if I doe? Shall I bid her goe and spare not? Oh no, no, no! I dare not.
O Lady, he is dead and gone! Lady, he 's dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone.
Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi' the auld moon in hir arme.
King Stephen was a worthy peere, His breeches cost him but a croune; He held them sixpence all too deere, Therefore he call'd the taylor loune. He was a wight of high renowne, And those but of a low degree; Itt 's pride that putts the countrye doune, Then take thine old cloake about thee.
I saw the new moon late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm.
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