Classic Poem

Throughe a forest as I can ryde,
To take my sporte yn on mornyng,
I cast my eye on euery syde,
I was ware of a bryde syngynge.

I sawe a faire mayde come rydyng;
I speke to hur of loue, I trowe;
She answered me all yn scornyng,
And sayd, The crowe shall byte yow.

" I p ra y yow, damesell, scorne me nott;
To wyn yo ur loue ytt ys my wyll;
For yo ur loue I haue dere bought,
And I wyll take good hede thertyll."

" Nay, for God, sir , that I nyll;
I tell the, Jenken, as I trowe,
Thow shalt nott fynde me suche a gyll;
Therfore the crowe shall byte yow."

He toke then owt a good golde ryng,
A p ur se of velweytt, that was soo fyne:
" Haue ye thys, my dere swetyng,
W i th that ye wylbe lemman myn."

" Be Cryst, I dare nott, for my dame,
To dele w i th hym þ a t I do nott knowe;
For soo I myght dyspyse my name;
Therfore the crow shall byte yow."

He toke hur abowte the mydell small,
That was soo faire of hyde and hewe;
He kyssed har cheke as whyte as whall,
And p ra yed hur þ a t she wolde vpon hym rewe.

She scornyd hym, and callyd hym Hew;
H is loue was as a paynted blowe:
" To-day me, to-morowe a newe;
Therfore the crow shall byte yow."

He toke hur abowte the mydell small,
And layd hur downe vpon the grene;
Twys or thrys he s er ved hur soo w i thall,
He wolde nott stynt yet, as I wene.

" But sythe ye haue i-lyen me bye,
Ye wyll wedde me now, as I trowe:"
" I wyll be aduysed, Gyll," sayd he,
" For now the pye hathe peckyd yow."

" But sythe ye haue i-leyn me by,
And brought my body vnto shame,
Some of yo ur good ye wyll part w i th me,
Or ell es , be Cryst, ye be to blame."

" I wylbe aduysed," he sayde;
" þe wynde ys wast þ a t thow doyst blowe;
I haue a-nod er þ a t most be payde;
Therfore the pye hathe pecked yow."

" Now sythe ye haue i-leyn me bye,
A lyttle thyng ye wyll tell;
In case that I w i th chylde be,
What ys yo ur name? Wher doo ye dwell?"

" At Yorke, a[t] London, at Clerkenwell,
At Leycest er , Cambryge, at myrye Brystowe;
Some call me Rychard, Robart, Jacke, and Wyll;
For now the pye hathe peckyd yow.

" But, all medans, be ware be rewe,
And lett no man downe yow throwe;
For and yow doo, ye wyll ytt rewe,
For then þe p the wyll pecke yow."

" Farewell, corteor, ou er the medoo,
Pluke vp yo ur helys, I yow beshrew!
Yo ur trace, wher so eu er ye ryde or goo,
Cryst es curse goo wythe yow!

" Thoughe a knave hathe by me leyne,
Yet am I nod er dede nor slowe;
I trust to recou er my harte agayne,
And Cryst es curse goo wythe yow!"