Page:National Ballad and Song (1897), vol. 1.djvu/33

It is a grafte Horne on a prettye head,
A staffe to make a Countesse bedd;

There is never a Ladye in this land
But that will take it in her hand;
The fayrest mayd that ere tooke liffe,
For loue of this became a weife;

And every wench, by her owne will,
Would keepe [it] in her quiuer still.
When sturdye stormes arise,
Shall blustering windes appeare:

I finde ofte tymes dust in ashes heare,
Live kindled coles of fire.
With good intent, marke well my minde,
You shall herein a secrett find.

[Then follows a kind of rebus:—]

Oh, my faire misteres, in;
upp your thighes, The in;
And put my into your ,
And then my shall wag apace,
Sir, is in your mistres then
not to deepe, lest if thow in
and drowne my in my
and driue your out of his place
Owles, Farewell, I wish your trees may growe