But I sall praise thee evermoir
With sangis sweit unto thy gloir;
The knees of my hert sall I bow,
And sing that richt Balulalow!

   34As ye came from the Holy Land

16th Cent.

AS ye came from the holy land
    Of Walsinghame,
Met you not with my true love
    By the way as you came?

How should I know your true love,
    That have met many a one
As I came from the holy land,
    That have come, that have gone?

She is neither white nor brown,
    But as the heavens fair;
There is none hath her form divine
    In the earth or the air.

Such a one did I meet, good sir,
    Such an angelic face,
Who like a nymph, like a queen, did appear
    In her gait, in her grace.

She hath left me here alone
    All alone, as unknown,
Who sometime did me lead with herself,
    And me loved as her own.

What’s the cause that she leaves you alone
    And a new way doth take,
That sometime did love you as her own,
    And her joy did you make?

I have loved her all my youth,
    But now am old, as you see:
Love likes not the falling fruit,
    Nor the withered tree.

Know that Love is a careless child,
    And forgets promise past:
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
    And in faith never fast.

His desire is a dureless content,
    And a trustless joy;
He is won with a world of despair,
    And is lost with a toy.

Of womenkind such indeed is the love,
    Or the word love abusàed,
Under which many childish desires
    And conceits are excusàed.

But true love is a durable fire,
    In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never dead, never cold,
    From itself never turning.


16th Cent.

BALOW, my babe, lie still and sleep!
It grieves me sore to see thee weep.
Wouldst thou be quiet I’se be glad,
Thy mourning makes my sorrow sad:
Balow my boy, thy mother’s joy,
Thy father breeds me great annoy—
                            Balow, la-low!

When he began to court my love,
And with his sugred words me move,
His fainings false and flattering cheer
To me that time did not appear:
But now I see most cruelly
He cares not for my babe nor me—
                            Balow, la-low!

Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile,
And when thou wak’st thou’le sweetly smile:
But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay, God forbid!
But yet I fear thou wilt go near
Thy father’s heart and face to bear—
                            Balow, la-low!

  By PanEris using Melati.

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