NICHOLAS BRETON?

��74. Si Cradle Song

The Arbor of Amorous

ME little babe, come silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,

Born as I doubt to all our dole,

And to thyself unhappy chief:

Sing lullaby, and lap it warm,

Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little think'st and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan ; Thou want'st the. wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone :

Why dost thou weep ? why dost thou wail ?

And know'st not yet what thou dost ail.

Come, little wretch ah, silly heart! Mine only joy, what can I more ? If there be any wrong thy smart, That may the destinies implore :

'Twas I, I say, against my will,

I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile ? O, thy sweet face ! Would God Himself He might thee see ! No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me :

But come to mother, babe, and play,

For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send,

�� �