Jack and Joan
Jack and Joan, they think no ill,
But loving live, and merry still:
Do their weekdays’ work and pray
Devoutly on the holy day;
Skip and trip it on the green,
And help to choose the Summer Queen;
Lash out at a country feast
Their silver penny with the best.
Well can they judge of nappy ale,
And tell at large a winter tale;
Climb up to the apple-loft,
And turn the crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the father’s joy,
And little Tom the mother’s boy:
All their pleasure is content,
And care to pay their yearly rent.
Joan can call by name her cows,
And deck her windows with green boughs;
She can wreaths and tussies make,
And trim with plums a bridal cake.
Jack knows what brings gain or loss,
And his long flail can stoutly toss,
Make the hedge which others break,
And ever thinks what he does speak.
Now, you courtly dames and knights,
That study only strange delights,
Though you scorn the homespun gray,
And revel in your rich array,
Though your tongues dissemble deep,
And can your heads from danger keep;
Yet, for all your pomp and train,
Securer lives the silly swain.