A pleasant Song, made by a Souldier, whose bringing up had bin dainty,
and partly fed by those affections of his unbridled youth, is now beaten
with his owne rod, and therefore tearmeth this his repentance,
the fall of his folly. To the tune of Calino.
|
I N Summer time when Phoebus rayes,
|
Did cheere each mortall mans delight,
|
Increasing of the chearefull dayes,
|
and cutting off the darkesome night.
|
When Nature brought forth every thing,
|
By just returne of April showers:
|
To make the pleasant branches spring,
|
of sundry sorts of hearbs and flowers.
|
It was my chance to walke abroad,
|
To view Dame Natures newcome brood:
|
The pretty Birds did lay on load,
|
with sugred tunes in every wood.
|
The gallant Nightingale did set,
|
Her speckled brest against a Bryer,
|
Whose wofull tunes bewayles as yet,
|
her brother Tereus foule desire.
|
The Serpents having cast their coates,
|
Lay listning how the Birds did sing:
|
The pretty birds with sugred notes,
|
did welcome in the pleasant Spring:
|
I drew me to the Greenewood side,
|
To heare this countrey harmony,
|
Whereas ere long I had espide,
|
a wofull man in misery.
|
He lay along upon the ground,
|
And to the heavens he cast his eye:
|
The bordering hils and dales resound,
|
the Ecchoes of his pittious cry.
|
He wailing sore, and sighing, said,
|
O heaven, what endlesse griefe have I?
|
Why are my sorrowes thus delaid?
|
come therefore death and let me dye.
|
When Nature first had made my frame,
|
And let me loose when she had done:
|
Steps Fortune in that fickle Dame,
|
to end what Nature had begun,
|
She set me soft upon her knee,
|
And blest my tender age with store;
|
But in the end she did agree,
|
to marre what she had done before.
|
I could no sooner creepe alone,
|
But she forsooke her fostred child,
|
I had no land to live upon,
|
but trac'd abroad the world so wild.
|
At length I fell in company,
|
With gallant youths of Mars his traine,
|
I spent my life in jeoperdy,
|
and got my labour for my paine.
|
I walked on the sieged walles,
|
In thunder, lightning, raine, and snow,
|
And oft in shot of powdred halls,
|
whose costly markes are yet to show,
|
When all my kindred tooke their rest,
|
At home in many a stately bed:
|
The ground and pavement was my nest,
|
my Flaske a pillow for my head.
|
My meate was such as I could finde,
|
As Rootes and Hearbes of sundry sorts:
|
Which did content my hungry mind,
|
although my commons were but short,
|
My powder served to salt my meate,
|
My murren for a gilden cup,
|
Wherein such drinke as I could get,
|
in spring or ditch, I dranke it up.
|
My Rapier alwaies by my side,
|
My peece lay charged with match alight,
|
Thus many a month I did abide,
|
to ward all day, and watch all night,
|
I lived in this glorious vaine,
|
Untill my limmes were stiffe and lame:
|
And then I got me home againe,
|
regarding not such costly fame.
|
When I came home, I made a proofe
|
What friends would do if need should be,
|
My neerest kinsfolkes look'd aloofe,
|
as though they had forgotten me.
|
And as the Owle by chattring charmes,
|
Is wondred at of other Birds,
|
So came they wondring at my harmes,
|
and yeeld me no releefe but words.
|
Thus doe I want when they have store,
|
That am their equall every way:
|
B ut fortune lent them somewhat more,
|
else had I beene as good as they.
|
Come gentle Death and end my griefe,
|
Ye pretty B irds ring forth my knell:
|
Let Robin red brest be the chiefe,
|
to bury me, andd so farewell.
|
Let no good Souldier be dismaide,
|
To fight in field with courage bold,
|
Yet marke the words that I have said,
|
trust not to friends when thou art old.
|
|
|
|
|
|