William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.
The Ballad of DowsabelMichael Drayton (15631631)
F
There wonned a knight, hight Cassamen,
As bold as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eager bent,
In battle and in tournament,
As was the good Sir Topas.
A daughter cleped Dowsabel,
A maiden fair and free:
And for she was her father’s heir,
Full well she was yconned the leir
Of mickle courtesy.
And make the fine march-pine,
And with the needle work:
And she could help the priest to say
His matins on a holyday,
And sing a psalm in kirk.
Might well become a maiden queen,
Which seemly was to see:
A hood to that so neat and fine
In colour like the columbine,
Ywrought full featously.
As is the grass that grows by Dove,
And lythe as lass of Kent:
Her skin as soft as Lemster wool,
As white as snow on Peakish Hull,
Or swan that swims in Trent.
Went forth when May was in the prime,
To get sweet setywall,
The honey-suckle, the harlock,
The lily, and the lady-smock,
To deck her summer hall.
And picked of the bloomy briar,
She chancèd to espy
A shepherd sitting on a bank,
Like chanticleer he crowed crank,
And piped full merrily.
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.
Was like the bedlam Tamberlane,
Which held proud kings in awe:
But meek as any lamb mought be,
And innocent of ill as he
Whom his lewd brother slaw.
Which was of the finest loke
That could be cut with sheer,
His mittons were of bauzons’ skin,
His cockers were of cordiwin,
His hood of minivere.
His tar-box on his broad belt hung,
His breech of Cointree blue;
Full crisp and curlèd were his locks,
His brows as white as Albion rocks,
So like a lover true.
So merry as the popinjay,
Which likèd Dowsabel;
That would she ought, or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought,
She in love-longing fell.
White as a lily was her smock,
She drew the shepherd nigh:
But then the shepherd piped a good,
That all his sheep forsook their food,
To hear his melody.
That have a jolly shepherd swain,
The which can pipe so well.”
“Yea, but,” said he, “their shepherd may,
If piping thus he pine away,
In love of Dowsabel.”
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 Dowsabel
Come forth to gather May.”
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.
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.”
Than I should lose my maidenhead,
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.
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.”
Down by the shepherd kneeled 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.”