Whom his lewd brother slaw.

This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloke,
Which was of the finest loke
That could be cut with shear;
His mittens were of bauzon's skin, {94h}
His cockers were of cordiwin, {94i} {94j}
His hood of minivere.

His awl and lingell in a thong; {95a}
His tarbox on his broadbelt hung,
His breech of Cointree blue.
Full crisp and curled were his locks,
His brows as white as Albion rocks,
So like a lover true.

And piping still he spent the day
So merry as the popinjay,
Which liked Dowsabell,
That would she ought, or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought,
She in love-longing fell.

At length she tucked up her frock,
White as the lily was her smock;
She drew the shepherd nigh;
But then the shepherd piped a good,
That all the sheep forsook their food,
To hear his melodie.