An Elizabethan Ballad

1895

Dildido, dildido,
O love, O love,
I feel thy rage rumble below and above!

In summer time I see a face,
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Like to a stoned horse was her pace.
Was ever a young man so dismayed?
Her eyes, like wax torches, did make me afraid!
Trop belle pour moi, voila trepas.

Thy beauty, my love, exceedeth supposes;
Thy hair is a nettle for the nicest roses.
Mon dieu, aide moi!
That I with the primrose of my fresh wit
May stumble her tyranny under my feet.
He donc je seral un jeune roi!
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Trop belle pour moi, voila mon trepas.

-- Extract from the Works of Robert Greene, 1560-92.