In the merrie moneth of Maye,
In a morne by break of daye,
With a troope of damsells playing,
Forth I yode forsooth a maying;
Where anon by a wood side,
Where as May was in his pride,
I espied all alone
Phillida and Corydon.
Much adoe there was, God wot;
He wold love, and she wold not.
She sayde never man was trewe;
He sayes none was false to you.
He sayde hee had lovde her longe:
She sayes love should have no wronge.
Corydon wold kisse her then:
She sayes maids must kisse no men,
Tyll they doe for good and all.
When she made the shepperde call
All the heavens to wytnes truthe,
Never lov’d a truer youthe.
Then with many a prettie othe,
Yea, and naye, and faithe and trothe;
Such as seelie shepperdes use
When they will not love abuse;
Love that had bene long deluded
Was with kisses swete concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gaye
Was made the ladye of the Maye.
N. BRETON.