A proper new balad in praise of my Ladie Marques,
Whose death is bewailed,
To the tune of new lusty gallant.
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LAdies I thinke you marvell that
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I writ no mery report to you,
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And what is the cause I court it not
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So merye as I was wont to dooe,
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Alas I let you understand,
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It is no newes for me to show,
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The fairest flower of my garland
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Was caught from court a great while a goe.
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For under the roufe of sweete Saint Paull,
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There lyeth my Ladie buryed in Claye,
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Where I make memory for her soule,
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With weepinge eyes once everye daye,
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All other sightes I have forgot,
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That ever in court I joyed to see:
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And that is the cause I court it not,
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So mery as I was wont to be,
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And though that shee be dead and gone,
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Whose courting need not to be tolde,
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And natures mould of fleshe and bone,
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Whose lyke now lives not to beholde,
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Methinkes I see her walke in blacke,
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In every corner where I goe:
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To looke if aniebodie do lacke,
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A frend to helpe them of theyr woe.
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Meethinkes I see her sorowfull teares,
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To princelye state approching nye
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Meethinkes I see her tremblinge feares,
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Leste anie her suites shulde hit awrie,
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Meethinkes she shuld be still be in place
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A pitifull speaker to a Queene,
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Bewailinge every poore mans case,
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As many a time shee hath ben seene.
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Meethinkes I see her modeste mood
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Her comlie clothig plainlie clad,
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Her face so sweete her cheere so good,
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The courtlie countenance that shee had
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But chefe of all meethinkes I see,
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Her vertues dentie daie by daie,
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Homblie kneeling one her knee
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As her desire was still to praie.
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Meethinkes I cold from morow to night
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Do nothing ells with verie good will,
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But spend the time to speake and writte:
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The praise of my good ladies still
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Though reason saith now she is dead
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Go seeke and sarve as good as shee
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It will not sinke so in my head
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That ever the like in courte will bee.
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But sure I am ther liveth yet,
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In court a dearer frinde to mee,
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Whome I to sarve am so unfit,
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I am sure the like will never bee,
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For I with all that I can dooe,
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Unworthie most maie seeme to bee
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To undoo the lachet of her shooe,
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Yet will I come to courte and see.
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Then have amongste ye once againe,
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Faint harts faire Ladies never win,
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I trust ye will consider my payne,
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When any good Venison cometh in,
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And gentill Ladies I you praie,
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If my absentinge breede to blame,
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In my behalfe that ye will saie,
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In court is remedie for the same.
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