One day beneathe a willowe tree,

Love met a mayde moste faire to see;

“Come play at hyde and seeke,” cried he.

“With alle my hearte!”—quoth she.

“I’m it!” Love cries, and rounde hys eyes

A scarfe the maiden bindeth,

And inne and oute and rounde aboute

Ye willowe trees he windeth—

Yette ne’er the maiden findeth.

Stille inne and oute and rounde aboute,

And stille no maiden meetinge;

Till, piqued, ye rogue unbinds hys eyes,

And, perched upon a branch, espies

Ye mayde retreatinge;

“Fie! Fie!” cries Love—“you’re cheetinge!”

“Now, you,” quothe he, “must seeke for me!”

She binds her eyes, assentinge,

And inne and oute and rounde aboute,

Seeks she for Love relentinge—

But Love, they say—alas, ye day!

Has spread his wings and flown away,

And left ye mayde lamentinge,

And left ye mayde repentinge.