1584.
¶Who vseth still the truth to tel,
May blamed be though he saie wel:
Say Crowe is white, and snowe is blacke,
Lay not the fault on womans backe,
Thousands were good,
But few scapte drowning in Noes flood:
Most are wel bent,
I must say so, least I be shent.
Finis.
¶ An excellent Song of an outcast Louer.
To, All In a Garden green.
Y fancie did I fixe,
in faithful forme and frame:
in hope ther shuld no blustring blast
haue power to moue the same.
¶And as the Gods do know,
and world can witnesse beare:
I neuer serued other Saint,
nor Idoll other where.
¶But one, and that was she,
whom I in heart did shrine:
And make account that pretious pearle,
and iewel rich was mine.
¶No toile, nor labour great,
could wearie me herein:
For stil I had a Iasons heart,
the golden fleece to win.
¶And sure my sute was hearde,
I spent no time in vaine:
A grant of friendship at her hand,
I got to quite my paine.
