C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Author Unknown

The Nut-Brown Maid

BE it ryght or wrong, these men among

On women do complayne:

Affyrmynge this, how that it is

A labour spent in vayne

To love them wele; for never a dele

They love a man agayne:

For late a man do what he can,

Theyr favour to attayne,

Yet yf a newe do them persue,

Theyr first true lover than

Laboureth for nought; for from her thought

He is a banyshed man.

I say nat nay, but that all day

It is bothe writ and sayd

That woman’s faith is, as who sayth,

All utterly decayd;

But neverthelesse ryght good wytnésse

In this case might be layd,

That they love true and continúe:

Recorde the Not-browne Mayd,—

Which, when her love came, her to prove,

To her to make his mone,

Wold nat depart; for in her hart

She loved but hym alone.

Than betwaine us late us dyscus

What was all the manere

Betwayne them two: we wyll also

Tell all the payne and fere

That she is in. Now I begyn

So that ye me answére;

Wherfore all ye that present be

I pray you gyve an ere:—

I am the knyght: I come by nyght,

As secret as I can;

Sayinge, “Alas! thus standeth the case:

I am a banyshed man.”

And I your wyll for to fulfyll

In this wyll nat refuse;

Trustying to shewe, in wordès fewe,

That men have an yll use

(To theyr own shame) women to blame,

And causelesse them accuse:

Therfore to you I answere nowe,

All women to excuse,—

Myne owne hart dere, with what you chere

I pray you, tell anone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

It standeth so,—a dede is do

Whereof grete harme shall growe:

My destiny is for to dy

A shamefull deth, I trowe;

Or elles to fle: the one must be,

None other way I knowe,

But to withdrawe as an outlawe,

And take me to my bowe.

Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true!

None other rede I can;

For I must to the grene wode go

Alone, a banyshed man.

O Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,

That changeth as the mone!

My somers day in lusty May

Is derked before the none.

I here you say farewell: nay, nay,

We départ nat so sone.

Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go?

Alas! what have ye done?

All my welfáre to sorrowe and care

Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

I can beleve it shall you greve,

And somewhat you dystrayne:

But aftyrwarde, your paynes harde

Within a day or twayne

Shall some aslake; and ye shall take

Comfort to you agayne.

Why sholde ye ought? for to make thought,

Your labour were in vayne.

And thus I do; and pray you to

As hartely as I can:

For I must to the grene wode go

Alone, a banyshed man.

Now, syth that ye have shewed to me

The secret of your mynde,

I shall be playne to you agayne,

Lyke as ye shall me fynde.

Syth it is so, that ye wyll go,

I wolle not leve behynde:

Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayd

Was to her love unkynde.

Make you redy, for so am I,

Allthough it were anone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

Yet I you rede to take good hede

What men wyll thynke and say:

Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde,

That ye be gone away,

Your wanton wyll for to fulfyll,

In grene wode you to play;

And that ye myght from your delyght

No lenger make delay.

Rather than ye sholde thus for me

Be called an yll womán,

Yet wolde I to the grene wode go

Alone, a banyshed man.

Though it be songe of old and yonge,

That I sholde be to blame,

Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large

In hurtynge of my name:

For I wyll prove that faythfulle love

It is devoyd of shame;

In your dystresse and hevynesse,

To part with you, the same:

And sure all tho, that do not so,

True lovers are they none;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

I counceyle you, remember howe

It is no maydens lawe,

Nothynge to dout, but to renne out

To wode with an outláwe:

For ye must there in your hand bere

A bowe, redy to drawe;

And as a thefe, thus must you lyve,

Ever in drede and awe:

Wherby to you grete harme myght growe;

Yet had I lever than

That I had to the grene wode go

Alone, a banyshed man.

I thinke nat nay, but as ye say,

It is no maidens lore:

But love may make me for your sake,

As I have sayd before,

To come on fote, to hunt, and shote,

To gete us mete in store;

For so that I your company

May have, I aske no more:

From which to part, it maketh my hart

As colde as ony stone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

For an outlawe this is the lawe,

That men hym take and bynde;

Without pyté, hangèd to be,

And waver with the wynde.

If I had nede, (as God forbede!)

What rescous coude ye fynde?

Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe

For fere wolde drawe behynde:

And no mervayle; for lytell avayle

Were in your counceyle than:

Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go

Alone, a banyshed man.

Right wele know ye, that woman be

But feble for to fyght;

No womenhede it is indede

To be bolde as a knyght:

Yet in such fere yf that ye were

With enemyes day or nyght,

I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande,

To greve them as I myght,

And you to save; as women have

From deth, men many one:

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

Yet take good hede; for ever I drede

That ye coude nat sustayne

The thornie wayes, the deep valléies,

The snowe, the frost, the rayne,

The colde, the hete: for dry or wete,

We must lodge on the playne;

And, us above, none other rofe

But a brake bush, or twayne:

Which some sholde greve you, I beleve;

And ye wolde gladly than

That I had to the grene wode go

Alone, a banyshed man.

Syth I have here bene partynére

With you of joy and blysse,

I must also part of your wo

Endure, as reson is;

Yet am I sure of one plesúre

And shortely, it is this:

That where ye be, me semeth, pardé,

I could not fare amysse.

Without more speche, I you beseche

That we were sone agone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

If ye go thyder, ye must consyder,

Whan ye have lust to dyne,

There shall no mete be for you gete,

Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne.

No schetès clene, to lye betwene,

Made of threde and twyne;

None other house but leves and bowes,

To cover your hed and myne.

O myne harte swete, this evyll dyéte

Sholde make you pale and wan;

Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go

Alone, a banyshed man.

Amonge the wild dere, such an archére

As men say that ye be

Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle,

Where is so grete plenté;

And water clere of the ryvére

Shall be full swete to me:

With which in hele I shall ryght wele

Endure, as ye shall see;

And, or we go, a bedde or two

I can provyde anone:

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

Lo! yet, before, ye must do more,

Yf ye wyll go with me:

As cut your here up by your ere,

Your kyrtel by the kne;

With bowe in hande, for to withstande

Your enemyes, yf nede be:

And this same nyght, before daylight,

To wode-warde wyll I fle.

Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill,

Do it shortely as ye can;

Els wyll I to the grene wode go

Alone, a banyshed man.

I shall as nowe do more for you

Than longeth to womanhede;

To shote my here, a bowe to bere,

To shote in tyme of nede.

O my swete mother, before all other

For you I have most drede:

But nowe adue! I must ensue

Where fortune doth me lede.

All this make ye: now let us fle;

The day cometh fast upon:

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

Nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go,

And I shall tell ye why:

Your appetyght is to be lyght

Of love, I wele espy;

For lyke as ye have sayd to me,

In lyke wyse hardely

Ye wolde answére whosoever it were,

In way of company.

It is sayd of olde, Sone hot, sone colde;

And so is a womán.

Wherfore I to the wode wyll go

Alone, a banyshed man.

Yf ye take hede, it is no nede

Such wordes to say by me:

For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed,

Or I you loved, pardé;

And though that I of auncestry

A barons daughter be,

Yet have you proved howe I you loved,

A squyer of lowe degre:

And ever shall, whatso befall

To dy therfore anone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

A barons chylde to be begylde!

It were a cursèd dede;

To be feláwe with an outlawe!

Almighty God forbede!

Yet better were the pore squyére

Alone to forest yede,

Than ye sholde say another day,

That, by my cursèd dede,

Ye were betrayed; wherfore, good mayd,

The best rede that I can,

Is, that I to the grene wode go

Alone, a banyshed man.

Whatever befall, I never shall

Of this thyng you upbrayd;

But yf ye go, and leve me so,

Then have ye me betrayd.

Remember you wele, howe that ye dele:

For yf ye, as ye sayd,

Be so unkynde, to leve behynde

Your love, the Not-browne Mayd,

Trust me truly, that I shall dy

Sone after ye be gone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent:

For in the forest nowe

I have purvayed me of a mayd,

Whom I love more than you;

Another fayrére than ever ye were,

I dare it wele avowe:

And of ye bothe eche sholde be wrothe

With other, as I trowe.

It were myne ese, to lyve in pese;

So wyll I, yf I can:

Wherfore I to the wode wyll go

Alone, a banyshed man.

Though in the wode I undyrstode

Ye had a paramour,

All this may nought remove my thought,

But that I will be your:

And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde,

And courteys every hour;

Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll

Commaunde me to my power:

For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,

Of them I wolde be one;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

Myne owne dere love, I se the prove

That ye be kynde and true;

Of mayd and wyfe, in all my lyfe,

The best that ever I knewe.

Be mery and glad, be no more sad,

The case is chaungèd newe;

For it were ruthe, that for your truthe

Ye sholde have cause to rewe.

Be nat dismayed: whatsoever I sayd

To you whan I began,

I wyll nat to the grene wode go,—

I am no banyshed man.

These tydings be more gladd to me

Than to be made a quene,

Yf I were sure they sholde endure;

But it is often sene,

Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke

The wordes on the splene.

Ye shape some wyle me to begyle,

And stele from me, I wene:

Than were the case worse than it was,

And I more wo-begone;

For in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

Ye shall nat nede further to drede;

I will nat dysparáge

You, (God forfend!) syth ye descend

Of so grete a lynáge.

Nowe undyrstande: to Westmarlande,

Which is myne herytage,

I wyll you brynge, and with a rynge

By way of maryage

I wyll you take, and lady make,

As shortely as I can;

Thus have you won an erlys son

And not a banyshed man.

Here may ye se that women be

In love, meke, kynde, and stable:

Late never man reprove them than,

Or call them variable.

But rather, pray God that we may

To them be comfortable;

Which sometyme proveth such, as he loveth,

Yf they be charytable.

For syth men wolde that women sholde

Be meke to them each one,

Moche more ought they to God obey,

And serve but hym alone.

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