Eclogue The Third
Wouldst thou kenn Nature in her better parte?
Goe, serche the logges and bordels of the hynde ;
Gyfe theye have anie, itte ys roughe-made arte,
Inne hem you see the blakied forme of kynde .
Haveth your mind a lycheynge of a mynde?
Woulde it kenne everich thynge as it mote bee;
Woulde ytte here phrase of the vulgar from the hynde,
Wythoute wiseegger wordes and knowlache free,
Gyf soe, rede thys, whych Iche dysporteynge pende,
Gif nete besyde, yttes rhyme maie ytte commend.
MANNE
Botte whether, fayre mayde do ye goe,
O where do ye bend yer waie?
I wile knowe whether you goe,
I wylle not be asseled naie.
WOMANNE
To Robyn and Nell, all downe in the Delle,
To hele hem at makeynge of haie.
MANNE
Syr Rogerre the Parsone hav hyred mee there,
Comme, Comme, lette us tryppe ytte awaie;
We'lle wurche and wylle synge, and wylle drenche of stronge Beere,
As longe as the merrie sommers daie.
WOMANNE
Howe harde ys mie dome to wurch!
Moke is mie woe:
Dame Agnes whoe lies ynne the Chyrche,
With birlette golde;
Wythe gelten aumeres stronge ontolde,
What was shee moe than me, to be soe?
MANNE
I kenne Syr Roger from afar,
Tryppynge over the Lea,
Ich ask whie the loverds son
Is moe than mee.
SIR ROGERE
The sweltrie sonne dothe hie apace hys wayne .
From everich beme, a seme of lyfe doe falle;
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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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