With Daniel she did dance,
On me she would not glance.
Oh thrice unhappy chance!
Phillida flouts me.

Fair maid, be not so coy,
Do not disdain me.

I am my mother's joy,
Sweet, entertain me.

She'll give me when she dies,
All things that's fitting,
Her poultry and her bees
And her geese sitting;
A pair of mallard's beds,
A barrel full of shreds:

And yet for all this guedes,
Phillida flouts me.

Thou shalt eat curds and cream,

All the year lasting;

And drink the crystal stream,

Pleasant in tasting;

Whig and whey till thou burst,

And bramble berries,

Pie-lid and pastry-crust,

Pears, plums and cherries.

Thy raiment shall be thin,
Made of the weevil's skin;
All is not worth a pin,
Phillida flouts me.

Cupid hath shot his dart,
And hath me wounded;
It prick'd my tender heart
And ne'er rebounded.
I was a fool to scorn
His bow and quiver;

I am like one forlorn,
Sick of a fever.

Now I may weep and mourn,

Whilst with Love's flames I burn;

Nothing will serve my turn;
Phillida flouts me.

I am a lively lad,

Howe'er she take me;

I am not half so bad,

As she would make me.
Whether she smile or frown,
She may deceive me.
Ne'er girl in the town,
But fain would have me.

Since she doth from me fly,
Now I may sigh and die,

And never cease to cry
Phillida flouts me.

In the last month of May
I made her posies;

I heard her often say
That she loved roses.
Cowslips and gilliflowers
And the white lily,

I brought to deck the bowers
For my sweet Philly.

But she did all disdain,

And threw them back again; Therefore it's flat and plain Phillida flouts me.

One cast milk on my clothes, T'other play'd with my nose; What wanton toys are those? Phillida flouts me.

I cannot work and sleep

All at a season;

Grief wounds my heart so deep,
Without all reason

I fade and pine away,
With grief and sorrow;
I fall quite to decay
Like any shadow;
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within a thousand year;
All is for grief and care;
Phillida flouts me.

She hath a clout of mine

Wrought with good Coventry,

Which she keeps for a sign

Of my fidelity.

But i' faith, if she frown,

She shall not wear it;

I'll give it Doll my maid,

And she shall tear it.

Since 't will no better be,
I'll bear it patiently;

Yet all the world may see
Phillida flouts me.

From a broadsheet, of about 1600, in the Roxburghe Collection.

Thomas Nashe

(1567-1600)

Spring

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,

Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and May make country

houses gay,

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,

Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit
In every street, these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet Spring!

From "Summer's Last Will and Testament."