Gipsy Rites

Thy best hand lay on this turf of grass,
There thy heart lies, vow not to pass
From us two years for sun nor snow,
For hill nor dale, howe'er winds blow;
Vow the hard earth to be thy bed,
With her green cushions under thy head;
Flower-banks or moss to be thy board,
Water thy wine — and drink like a lord.

Kings can have but coronations;
We are as proud of gipsy fashions;
Dance, sing, and in a well-mixed border,
Close this new brother of our order.

What we get with us come share,
You to get must vow to care;
Nor strike gipsy, nor stand by
When strangers strike, but fight or die;
Our gipsy-wenches are not common,
You must not kiss a fellow's leman;
Nor to your own, for one you must,
In songs send errands of base lust.

Dance, sing, and in a well-mixed border
Close this new brother of our order.
Set foot to foot; those garlands hold,
Now mark [well] what more is told;
By cross arms, the lover's sign,
Vow as these flowers themselves entwine,
Of April's wealth building a throne
Round, so your love to one or none;
By those touches of your feet,
You must each night embracing meet,
Chaste, howe'er disjoined by day;
You the sun with her must play,
She to you the marigold,
To none but you her leaves unfold;
Wake she or sleep, your eyes so charm,
Want, woe, nor weather do her harm.

This is your market now of kisses,
Buy and sell free each other blisses.
Holidays, high days, gipsy-fairs,
When kisses are fairings, and hearts meet in pairs.