A Robyn, Jolly Robyn
A Robyn,
Jolly Robyn,
Tell me how thy leman doeth,
And thou shalt knowe of myn.
'My lady is unkynde, perde.'
Alack! why is she so?
'She loveth an other better than me;
And yet she will say no.'
I fynde no such doublenes;
I fynde women true;
My lady loveth me dowtles,
And will change for no newe.
'Thou art happy while that deeth last:
But I say, as I fynde,
That women's love is but a blast,
And torneth with the wynde.'
Suche folkes can take no harme by love,
That can abide their torn.
'But I alas can no way prove
In love, but lake and morne.'
But if thou wilt avoyde thy harme,
Lerne this lessen of me:
At others fieres thy selfe to warme,
And let them warme with the.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Added by Poetry Lover
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