“In Lententime, when leaves wax green,
     And pretty birds begin to mate,
 When lark cloth sing, and thrush, I ween,
     And stockdove cooeth soon and late,
 Fair Phillis sat beside a stone,
 And thus I heard her make her moan: 
     ’O willow, willow, willow, willow! 
 I’ll take me of thy branches fair
 And twine a wreath to deck my hair.

 “’The thrush hath taken him a she,
     The robin, too, and eke the dove;
 My Robin hath deserted me,
     And left me for another love. 
 So here, by brookside, all alone,
 I sit me down and make my moan. 
     O willow, willow, willow, willow! 
 I’ll take me of thy branches fair
 And twine a wreath to deck my hair.’

 “But ne’er came herring from the sea,
     But good as he were in the tide;
 Young Corydon came o’er the lea,
     And sat him Phillis down beside. 
 So, presently, she changed her tone,
 And ’gan to cease her from her moan,
     ’O willow, willow, willow, willow! 
 Thou mayst e’en keep thy garlands fair,
 I want them not to deck my hair_.’”

“Now, by my faith,” cried Little John, “that same is a right good song, and hath truth in it, also.”

“Glad am I thou likest it, sweet lad,” said the Cook.  “Now sing thou one also, for ne’er should a man be merry alone, or sing and list not.”

“Then I will sing thee a song of a right good knight of Arthur’s court, and how he cured his heart’s wound without running upon the dart again, as did thy Phillis; for I wot she did but cure one smart by giving herself another.  So, list thou while I sing: 

THE GOOD KNIGHT AND HIS LOVE

 “When Arthur, King, did rule this land,
     A goodly king was he,
 And had he of stout knights a band
     Of merry company.

 “Among them all, both great and small,
     A good stout knight was there,
 A lusty childe, and eke a tall,
     That loved a lady fair.

 “But nought would she to do with he,
     But turned her face away;
 So gat he gone to far countrye,
     And left that lady gay.

 “There all alone he made his moan,
     And eke did sob and sigh,
 And weep till it would move a stone,
     And he was like to die.

 “But still his heart did feel the smart,
     And eke the dire distress,
 And rather grew his pain more sharp
     As grew his body less.

 “Then gat he back where was good sack
     And merry com panye,
 And soon did cease to cry ‘Alack!’
     When blithe and gay was he.

 “From which I hold, and feel full bold
     To say, and eke believe,
 That gin the belly go not cold
     The heart will cease to grieve_.”

“Now, by my faith,” cried the Cook, as he rattled the pottle against the sideboard, “I like that same song hugely, and eke the motive of it, which lieth like a sweet kernel in a hazelnut”