You must sing a-down a-down, An you call him a-down-a.

O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master’s daughter.

There’s fennel for you, and columbines: there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me: we may call it herb-grace o’ Sundays: O you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died: they say he made a good end⁠— Sings.

For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness.

Sings.