“Sweete maide,” ye lovesicke youthe remarked,
“Thou'rt fickle as my star!
By far ye worste I ever sparked,
You are! You really are!
Albeit yt my brains are nil,
I'm gallante as can be;
I'lle be to you whate'er you wille,
If you'lle be more to me.”
“Faire youthe,” ye maide replied, “I do
Not barter, as a rule,
But I'lle be sister untoe you,—
Be you my Aprille foole.”