I care not for the fan or mask,
When Titan's heat reflecteth;
A homely hat is all I ask,

Which well my face protecteth;
Yet I am in my country guise
Esteemed lasse as pretty
As those that every day devise
New shapes in court or city.

In every season of the year

I undergo my labor;

No shower nor wind at all I fear,
My limbs I do not favor.

If summer's heat my beauty stain,
It makes me ne'er the sicker,

Sith I can wash it off again

With a cup of Christmas liquor.

From a black-letter copy in the Assigns of Symcocke.

HARVEST SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Sickles sound;

On the ground

Fast the ripe ears fall;

Every maiden's bonnet

Has blue blossoms on it

Joy is over all.

Sickles ring,

Maidens sing

To the sickle's sound; Till the moon is beaming, And the stubble gleaming, Harvest songs go round.

All are springing, All are singing Every lisping thing; Man and master meat

From one dish they eat;

Each is now a king.

Hans and Michael

Whet the sickle,

O had I beforehand

But known of this Rosa,
The lovely milk-maiden

Of fair Finojosa :

Her very great beauty
Had not so subdued,
Because it had left me,

To do as I would!

I have said more, O fair one,
By learning 'twas Rosa,
The charming milk-maiden
Of sweet Finojosa.

Translation of T. Roscoe.

LOPE DE MENDOZA, 1898-1459

SERVIAN

SONG OF THE PEASANT'S WIFE.

Come, companion, let us hurry,
That we may be early home;
For my mother-in-law is cross!
Only yestreen she accused me--

Said that I had beat my husband,

When, poor soul, I had not touched him;

Only bid him wash the dishes,

And he would not wash the dishes;
Threw, then, at his head the pitcher;
Knocked a hole in head and pitcher;
For the head I do not care much;
But I care much for the pitcher,
As I paid for it right dearly-
Paid for it with one wild apple-
Yes, and half a one besides.

Translated by TALVI.

LINES.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove;

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown-and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh !

The difference to me!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850.

THE BALADE OF THE SHEPHARDE.

FROM THE "KALENDAR OF SHEPHARDES,"

I know that God hath formed me,
And made me to his own likenesse :
I know that he hath given to me truly
Soul and body-wit and knowledge givis.
I know that by right wise true balance,
After my deeds judged shall I be.

I know much, but I wot not the variance,

To understand whereof cometh my folly.

I know full well that I shall die,
And yet my life amend not I.

I know in what poverty,

Born a child this earth above.
I know that God hath lent to me
Abundance of goods to my behoof.
I know that riches can me not save,
And with me I shall bear none away.
I know the more good I have,

The loather I shall be to die.

I know all this faithfully,

And yet my life amend not I.

I know that I have passed

Great part of my days with joy and pleasaunce.

I know that I have gathered

Sins, and also do little penance.

I know that by ignorance,

To excuse me there is no art.

I know that once shall be

When my soul shall depart

That I shall wish that I had mended me.

I know there is no remedy,

And therefore my life amend I will!

RICHARD PYNSON, 16th centu y.