How shalle I winne my one loves harte--
My love who loves not mee?
I feare that hee will soone departe
No more my love to be!

If hee rode forth to bloodye fraye,
Though noone sworde coulde I wielde,
Beside him close, feyn woulde I staye,
And take blowes, as his shielde.

An hee were captur’d by villains,
His ransom gold I’ld paye,
E’en an I hadde to toil in chaines
A centurye and daye.

Aye an hee kill’d a manne for stryfe,
Ee fledde before the dawne,
I’ld soonere takke my verye life
Than telle where he hadde gone.

These idle dreames are useless thinges!
Is there no grandere waye
To serve him I prefere to kinges,
Whose hartes I caste awaye?

Ah! Hee has dropped his falcon glove:
I’ll fetch it thence, quickly--
Such smalle thinges do I for my love,
My love who loves not mee!