  Sir Peter de Wynkin He loved a fair mayde, And he wooed ye fair mayde For hys bride. But ye ladye cried "no," With a toss of her head, And Sir Wynkin Disconsolate sighed. "Now out! and alas! And alack-a-day me!" He sang him In sorrowful tones, "She loveth me not Yet, beshrew me!" said he, "There's a wizard I wot of Called—Jones." Was a wizard of note, And he dwelt in a cave Hard at hand. Love-philtres and potions He sold for a groat, To ye rich and ye poor Of ye land. Sir Wynkin, he sought This same wizard straightway, And he told him hys Dolorous plight. The wizard cried, "Ha! If you'll do as I say, Thys small matter Can soon be set right." "Thys potion—a love-philtre Made extra strong— To ye ladye, by you, Must be given." "Oddzooks!" quoth Sir Wynkin. "Ye ladye ere long Shall receive it, Or e'er I be shriven." Where ye fair ladye slept, But Sir Wynkin climbed up From ye basement. By means of ye ivy He painfully crept, And ye potion placed Outside the casement. "Ere the morrow is past. Curiosity'll prompt her To drink it. Ye magic will act, And she'll love me at last. Ah me! 'Tis sweet joy E'en to think it." But alack! and alas! Ye endyng was sad, Ye love-philtre caused Quite a commotion. For—a toothless old grand-dame Ye fair ladye had, And she found, and she drank Ye love potion!! With Sir Wynkin 'tis said, And declared that ye Knight Had betrayed her. So, distraught, from ye country Sir Wynkin he fled, And he died at ye wars— A Crusader.
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