VARIA.

I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;

At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep;

For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day;

And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say.

The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree,

He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily;

But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail;

I wot that I shall die of Love — an I die not of Ale.

Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink;

Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink;

But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out — “Te-Hee!

Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?”