Dowsabell.

Far in the country of Arden There woned [93d] a knight, hight Cassamen, As bold as Isenbras: Fell was he and eager bent In battle and in tournament As was good Sir Topás.

He had, as antique stories tell, A daughter clepéd Dowsabell, A maiden fair and free. And for she was her fathers heir, Full well she was yconned [93a] the leir [93b] Of mickle courtesie.

The silk well couth she twist and twine, And make the finé marché pine, [93c] And with the needle work; And she couth help the priest to say His matins on a holiday, And sing a psalm in kirk.

She ware a frock of frolic green Might well become a maiden queen, Which seemly was to see; A hood to that so neat and fine, In colour like the columbine, Inwrought full featously.

Her features all as fresh above As is the grass that grows by Dove, And lithe as lass of Kent. Her skin as soft as Lemster [94a] wool, And white as snow on Peakish hull, [94b] Or swan that swims in Trent.

This maiden, in a morn betime, Went forth, when May was in the prime, To get sweet setiwall, [94c] The honeysuckle, the harlock, [94d] The lily and the lady-smock, [94k] To deck her summer-hall. [94e]

Thus, as she wandered here and there, And pickéd of the bloomy brere, She chancéd to espy A shepherd sitting on a bank, Like chanticleer he crowéd crank, [94f] And piped full merrily.

He learned his sheep [94g] as he him list, When he would whistle in his fist, To feed about him round, Whilst he full many a carol sang, Until the fields and meadows rang, And that the woods did sound.

In favour this same shepherd swain Was like the bedlam Tamburlaine Which held proud kings in awe. But meek as any lamb mought be, And innocent of ill as he Whom his lewd brother slaw.

This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloke, Which was of the finest loke That could be cut with shear; His mittens were of bauzon’s [94h] skin, His cockers [94i] were of cordiwin, [94j] His hood of minivere.

His awl and lingell [95a] in a thong; His tarbox on his broadbelt hung, His breech of Cointree blue. Full crisp and curléd were his locks, His brows as white as Albion rocks, So like a lover true.

And piping still he spent the day So merry as the popinjay, Which likéd Dowsabell, That would she ought, or would she nought, This lad would never from her thought, She in love-longing fell.

At length she tuckéd up her frock, White as the lily was her smock; She drew the shepherd nigh; But then the shepherd piped a good, That all the sheep forsook their food, To hear his melodie.

“Thy sheep,” quoth she, “cannot be lean That have a jolly shepherd swain The which can pipe so well.” “Yea, but,” saith he, “their shepherd may, If piping thus he pine away In love of Dowsabell.”

“Of love, fond boy, take then no keep,” [95b] Quoth she; “Look well unto thy sheep, Lest they should hap to stray.” Quoth he, “So had I done full well, Had I not seen fair Dowsabell Come forth to gather may.”

With that she ’gan to vail her head, Her cheeks were like the roses red, But not a word she said. With that the shepherd ’gan to frown, He threw his pretty pipes adown, And on the ground him laid.

Saith she, “I may not stay till night And leave my summer-hall undight, And all for love of thee.” “My cote,” saith he, “nor yet my fold Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold, Except thou favour me.”

Saith she, “Yet liever were I dead Than I should [yield me to be wed], And all for love of men.” Saith he, “Yet are you too unkind If in your heart you cannot find To love us now and then.

“And I to thee will be as kind As Colin was to Rosalind Of courtesy the flower.” “Then will I be as true,” quoth she, “As ever maiden yet might be Unto her paramour.”

With that she bent her snow-white knee Down by the shepherd kneeléd she, And him she sweetly kist. With that the shepherd whooped for joy. Quoth he, “There’s never shepherd’s boy That ever was so blist.”