BOOK II. BALLADS THAT ILLUSTRATE SHAKESPEARE. (continued 2)
Reading edition
[No original from which the plot of the play of Titus Andronicus could be taken has yet been discovered, and it is just possible that this ballad may have given the hint, but the Registers of the Stationers' Company go some way towards proving a negative to this supposition, for on the 6th of February, 1593-4, John Danter registered A noble Roman Historye of Tytus Andronicus, and also the ballad thereof.]
You noble minds, and famous martiall wights, That in defence of native country fights, Give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for Rome, Yet reapt disgrace at my returning home. In Rome I lived in fame fulle threescore yeeres,5 My name beloved was of all my peeres; Full five and twenty valiant sonnes I had, Whose forwarde vertues made their father glad. For when Romes foes their warlike forces bent, Against them stille my sonnes and I were sent;10 Against the Goths full ten yeeres weary warre We spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre. Just two and twenty of my sonnes were slaine Before we did returne to Rome againe: Of five and twenty sonnes, I brought but three15 Alive, the stately towers of Rome to see. When wars were done, I conquest home did bring, And did present my prisoners to the king, The queene of Goths, her sons, and eke a moore, Which did such murders, like was nere before.20 The emperour did make this queene his wife, Which bred in Rome debate and deadlie strife; The moore, with her two sonnes did growe soe proud. That none like them in Rome might bee allowd The moore soe pleas'd this new-made empress' eie,25 That she consented to him secretlye For to abuse her husbands marriage bed, And soe in time a blackamore she bred. Then she, whose thoughts to murder were inclinde, Consented with the moore of bloody minde30 Against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes, In cruell sort to bring them to their endes. Soe when in age I thought to live in peace, Both care and griefe began then to increase: Amongst my sonnes I had one daughter bright,35 Which joy'd, and pleased best my aged sight; My deare Lavinia was betrothed than To Cesars sonne, a young and noble man: Who in a hunting by the emperours wife, And her two sonnes, bereaved was of life.40 He being slaine, was cast in cruel wise, Into a darksome den from light of skies: The cruell moore did come that way as then With my three sonnes, who fell into the den. The moore then fetcht the emperour with speed,45 For to accuse them of that murderous deed; And when my sonnes within the den were found, In wrongfull prison they were cast and bound. But nowe, behold! what wounded most my mind, The empresses two sonnes of savage kind50 My daughter ravished without remorse, And took away her honour, quite perforce. When they had tasted of soe sweete a flowre, Fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre, They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell55 How that dishonoure unto her befell. Then both her hands they basely cutt off quite, Whereby their wickednesse she could not write; Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe The bloudye workers of her direfull woe.60 My brother Marcus found her in the wood, Staining the grassie ground with purple bloud, That trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes: Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes. But when I sawe her in that woefull case,65 With teares of bloud I wet mine aged face: For my Lavinia I lamented more Then for my two and twenty sonnes before. When as I sawe she could not write nor speake, With grief mine aged heart began to breake;70 We spred an heape of sand upon the ground, Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found. For with a staffe, without the helpe of hand, She writt these wordes upon the plat of sand: "The lustfull sonnes of the proud emperèsse75 Are doers of this hateful wickednèsse." I tore the milk-white hairs from off mine head, I curst the houre, wherein I first was bred, I wisht this hand, that fought for countrie's fame, In cradle rockt, had first been stroken lame.80 The moore delighting still in villainy Did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free I should unto the king my right hand give, And then my three imprisoned sonnes should live. The moore I caus'd to strike it off with speede,85 Whereat I grieved not to see it bleed, But for my sonnes would willingly impart, And for their ransome send my bleeding heart. But as my life did linger thus in paine, They sent to me my bootlesse hand againe,90 And therewithal the heades of my three sonnes, Which filld my dying heart with fresher moanes. Then past reliefe I upp and downe did goe, And with my tears writ in the dust my woe: I shot my arrowes[883] towards heaven hie,95 And for revenge to hell did often crye. The empresse then, thinking that I was mad, Like furies she and both her sonnes were clad, (She nam'd Revenge, and Rape and Murder they) To undermine and heare what I would say.100 I fed their foolish veines[884] a certaine space, Untill my friendes did find a secret place, Where both her sonnes unto a post were bound, And just revenge in cruell sort was found. I cut their throates, my daughter held the pan105 Betwixt her stumpes, wherein the bloud it ran: And then I ground their bones to powder small, And made a paste for pyes streight therewithall. Then with their fleshe I made two mighty pyes, And at a banquet servde in stately wise:110 Before the empresse set this loathsome meat; So of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat. Myselfe bereav'd my daughter then of life, The empresse then I slewe with bloudy knife, And stabb'd the emperour immediatelie,115 And then myself: even soe did Titus die. Then this revenge against the Moore was found, Alive they sett him halfe into the ground, Whereas he stood untill such time he starv'd. And soe God send all murderers may be serv'd.120
FOOTNOTES:
XIV. TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.
The first stanza of this little sonnet, which an eminent critic[885] justly admires for its extreme sweetness, is found in Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, act iv. sc. 1. Both the stanzas are preserved in Beaum. and Fletcher's Bloody Brother, act v. sc. 2. Sewel and Gildon have printed it among Shakespeare's smaller poems, but they have done the same by twenty other pieces that were never writ by him; their book being a wretched heap of inaccuracies and mistakes. It is not found in Jaggard's old edition of Shakespeare's Passionate Pilgrim,[886] &c.
[The second stanza is an evident addition by another and inferior hand, so that Percy's expression above—"both the stanzas are preserved"—gives a false impression.]
Take, oh take those lips away, That so sweetlye were forsworne; And those eyes, the breake of day, Lights, that do misleade the morne: But my kisses bring againe,5 Seales of love, but seal'd in vaine Hide, oh hide those hills of snowe, Which thy frozen bosom beares, On whose tops the pinkes that growe, Are of those that April wears:10 But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee.
FOOTNOTES:
XV. KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS.
The reader has here an ancient ballad on the subject of King Lear, which (as a sensible female critic has well observed[887]) bears so exact an analogy to the argument of Shakespeare's play, that his having copied it could not be doubted, if it were certain that it was written before the tragedy. Here is found the hint of Lear's madness, which the old chronicles[888] do not mention, as also the extravagant cruelty exercised on him by his daughters. In the death of Lear they likewise very exactly coincide. The misfortune is, that there is nothing to assist us in ascertaining the date of the ballad but what little evidence arises from within; this the reader must weigh and judge for himself.
It may be proper to observe, that Shakespeare was not the first of our dramatic poets who fitted the story of Leir to the stage. His first 4to. edition is dated 1608: but three years before that had been printed a play intitled, The true Chronicle History of Leir and his three daughters Gonorill, Ragan, and Cordella, as it hath been divers and sundry times lately acted, 1605, 4to.—This is a very poor and dull performance, but happily excited Shakespeare to undertake the subject, which he has given with very different incidents. It is remarkable, that neither the circumstances of Leir's madness, nor his retinue of a select number of knights, nor the affecting deaths of Cordelia and Leir, are found in that first dramatic piece: in all which Shakespeare concurs with this ballad.
But to form a true judgement of Shakespeare's merit, the curious reader should cast his eye over that previous sketch; which he will find printed at the end of The Twenty Plays of Shakespeare, republished from the quarto impressions by George Steevens, Esq.; with such elegance and exactness as led us to expect that fine edition of all the works of our great dramatic poet, which he hath since published.
The following ballad is given from an ancient copy in the Golden Garland, bl. let. intitled, A lamentable song of the Death of King Leir and his Three Daughters. To the tune of When flying Fame.
[The old play referred to above, although printed as late as the year 1605, was probably only a re-impression of a piece entered in the Stationers' Register in 1594, as it was a frequent practice of the publishers to take advantage of the popularity of Shakspere's plays on the stage, by publishing dramas having somewhat the same titles as his.
The Cordella of the play is softened in the ballad to Cordelia, the form used by Shakspere and Spenser, but the name Ragan is retained in place of Shakspere's Regan.]
King Leir once ruled in this land With princely power and peace; And had all things with hearts content, That might his joys increase. Amongst those things that nature gave, Three daughters fair had he, So princely seeming beautiful, As fairer could not be. So on a time it pleas'd the king A question thus to move,10 Which of his daughters to his grace Could shew the dearest love: For to my age you bring content, Quoth he, then let me hear, Which of you three in plighted troth15 The kindest will appear. To whom the eldest thus began; Dear father, mind, quoth she, Before your face, to do you good, My blood shall render'd be:20 And for your sake my bleeding heart Shall here be cut in twain, Ere that I see your reverend age The smallest grief sustain. And so will I, the second said;25 Dear father, for your sake, The worst of all extremities I'll gently undertake: And serve your highness night and day With diligence and love;30 That sweet content and quietness Discomforts may remove. In doing so, you glad my soul, The aged king reply'd; But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,35 How is thy love ally'd? My love (quoth young Cordelia then) Which to your grace I owe, Shall be the duty of a child, And that is all I'll show.40 And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he, Than doth thy duty bind? I well perceive thy love is small, When as no more I find. Henceforth I banish thee my court,45 Thou art no child of mine; Nor any part of this my realm By favour shall be thine. Thy elder sisters loves are more Than well I can demand,50 To whom I equally bestow My kingdome and my land, My pompal state and all my goods, That lovingly I may With those thy sisters be maintain'd55 Until my dying day. Thus flattering speeches won renown, By these two sisters here; The third had causeless banishment, Yet was her love more dear:60 For poor Cordelia patiently Went wandring up and down, Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, Through many an English town: Untill at last in famous France65 She gentler fortunes found; Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd The fairest on the ground: Where when the king her virtues heard, And this fair lady seen,70 With full consent of all his court He made his wife and queen. Her father king Leìr this while With his two daughters staid: Forgetful of their promis'd loves,75 Full soon the same decay'd; And living in queen Ragan's court, The eldest of the twain, She took from him his chiefest means, And most of all his train.80 For whereas twenty men were wont To wait with bended knee: She gave allowance but to ten, And after scarce to three: Nay, one she thought too much for him;85 So took she all away, In hope that in her court, good king, He would no longer stay. Am I rewarded thus, quoth he, In giving all I have90 Unto my children, and to beg For what I lately gave? I'll go unto my Gonorell: My second child, I know, Will be more kind and pitiful,95 And will relieve my woe. Full fast he hies then to her court; Where when she heard his moan Return'd him answer, That she griev'd That all his means were gone:100 But no way could relieve his wants; Yet if that he would stay Within her kitchen, he should have What scullions gave away. When he had heard, with bitter tears,105 He made his answer then; In what I did let me be made Example to all men. I will return again, quoth he, Unto my Ragan's court;110 She will not use me thus, I hope, But in a kinder sort. Where when he came, she gave command To drive him thence away: When he was well within her court115 (She said) he would not stay. Then back again to Gonorell, The woeful king did hie, That in her kitchen he might have What scullion boys set by.120 But there of that he was deny'd, Which she had promis'd late: For once refusing, he should not Come after to her gate. Thus twixt his daughters, for relief125 He wandred up and down; Being glad to feed on beggars food, That lately wore a crown. And calling to remembrance then His youngest daughters words,130 That said the duty of a child Was all that love affords: But doubting to repair to her, Whom he had banish'd so, Grew frantick mad; for in his mind135 He bore the wounds of woe: Which made him rend his milk-white locks, And tresses from his head, And all with blood bestain his cheeks, With age and honour spread.140 To hills and woods and watry founts, He made his hourly moan, Till hills and woods, and sensless things, Did seem to sigh and groan. Even thus possest with discontents,145 He passed o're to France, In hopes from fair Cordelia there, To find some gentler chance; Most virtuous dame! which when she heard Of this her father's grief,150 As duty bound, she quickly sent Him comfort and relief: And by a train of noble peers, In brave and gallant sort, She gave in charge he should be brought155 To Aganippus' court; Whose royal king, with noble mind So freely gave consent, To muster up his knights at arms, To fame and courage bent.160 And so to England came with speed, To repossesse king Leir, And drive his daughters from their thrones By his Cordelia dear. Where she, true-hearted noble queen,165 Was in the battel slain: Yet he good king, in his old days, Possest his crown again. But when he heard Cordelia's death, Who died indeed for love170 Of her dear father, in whose cause She did this battle move; He swooning fell upon her breast, From whence he never parted: But on her bosom left his life,175 That was so truly hearted. The lords and nobles when they saw The end of these events, The other sisters unto death They doomed by consents;180 And being dead, their crowns they left Unto the next of kin: Thus have you seen the fall of pride, And disobedient sin.
FOOTNOTES:
XVI. YOUTH AND AGE,
Is found in the little collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets, intitled the Passionate Pilgrime,[889] the greatest part of which seems to relate to the amours of Venus and Adonis, being little effusions of fancy, probably written while he was composing his larger poem on that subject. The following seems intended for the mouth of Venus, weighing the comparative merits of youthful Adonis and aged Vulcan. In the Garland of Good Will it is reprinted, with the addition of four more such stanzas, but evidently written by a meaner pen.
Crabbed Age and Youth Cannot live together; Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care: Youth like summer morn,5 Age like winter weather, Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare: Youth is full of sport, Ages breath is short;10 Youth is nimble, Age is lame: Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and Age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee,15 Youth, I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is young: Age, I do defie thee; Oh sweet shepheard, hie thee, For methinks thou stayst too long.20
FOOTNOTES:
XVII. THE FROLICKSOME DUKE, OR THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE.
The following ballad is upon the same subject as the Induction to Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew: whether it may be thought to have suggested the hint to the dramatic poet, or is not rather of later date, the reader must determine.
The story is told[890] of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy; and is thus related by an old English writer: "The said Duke, at the marriage of Eleonora, sister to the king of Portugall, at Bruges in Flanders, which was solemnised in the deepe of winter; when as by reason of unseasonable weather he could neither hawke nor hunt, and was now tired with cards, dice, &c. and such other domestick sports, or to see ladies dance; with some of his courtiers, he would in the evening walke disguised all about the towne. It so fortuned, as he was walking late one night, he found a countrey fellow dead drunke, snorting on a bulke; he caused his followers to bring him to his palace, and there stripping him of his old clothes, and attyring him after the court fashion, when he wakened, he and they were all ready to attend upon his excellency, and persuade him that he was some great Duke. The poor fellow admiring how he came there, was served in state all day long: after supper he saw them dance, heard musicke, and all the rest of those court-like pleasures: but late at night, when he was well tipled, and again fast asleepe, they put on his old robes, and so conveyed him to the place, where they first found him. Now the fellow had not made them so good sport the day before, as he did now, when he returned to himself: all the jest was to see how he looked upon it. In conclusion, after some little admiration, the poore man told his friends he had seen a vision; constantly believed it; would not otherwise be persuaded, and so the jest ended." Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, pt. ii. sect. 2. Memb. 4, 2nd ed. 1624, fol.
This ballad is given from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, which is intitled as above. "To the tune of Fond Boy."
[The story of this ballad is of Eastern origin, and is the same as the tale of the Sleeper awakened in the Arabian Nights. The story crops up in many places, some of which are pointed out in Prof. Child's English and Scottish Ballads (vol. viii. p. 54). The question, however, of its origin is not of immediate interest in the discussion of Shakspere's plots, because the author of the old play, Taming of a Shrew, had already used the subject and named the tinker Slie, so that we have not far to seek for Shakspere's original.]
Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court, One that please his fancy with frolicksome sport: But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest, Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,5 As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. The duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben, Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then. O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:10 Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose, And they put him to bed for to take his repose. Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt: On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,15 They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. In the morning when day, then admiring he lay, For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay. Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;20 And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare, He desir'd to know what apparel he'd ware: The poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd, And admired how he to this honour was rais'd. Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,25 Which he straitways put on without longer dispute; With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, And it seem'd for to swell him 'no' little with pride; For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife? Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.30 From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace Did observe his behaviour in every case To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,35 With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew. A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, He was plac'd at the table above all the rest, In a rich chair 'or bed,' lin'd with fine crimson red, With a rich golden canopy over his head:40 As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat. While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine. Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,45 Till at last he began for to tumble and roul From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore, Being seven times drunker than ever before. Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, And restore him his old leather garments again:50 'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first; Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; But when he did waken, his joys took their flight. For his glory 'to him' so pleasant did seem,55 That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought; But his highness he said, Thou'rt a jolly bold blade, Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.60 Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak; Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round, Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,65 Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend. Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? Then I shall be a squire I well understand:70 Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace, I was never before in so happy a case.
FOOTNOTES:
XVIII. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.
Dispersed thro' Shakespeare's plays are innumerable little fragments of ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the reader's candour.
One small fragment was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher.
[Ritson exhibits a bit of grim humour in his Ancient Songs, vol. ii. ed. 1829, p. 64, where he prints a parody of Percy's Friar of Orders Gray, under the title of the Jovial Tinker, and prefixes to it the exact words that Percy uses above. The parody commences—
"It was a jovial tinker, All of the north countrie, As he walk'd forth, along the way He sung right merrily."]
It was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades; And he met with a lady faire Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,5 I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see. And how should I know your true love From many another one?10 O by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoone.[891] But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view; His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,15 And eyne of lovely blue. O lady, he is dead and gone! Lady, he's dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone.20 Within these holy cloysters long He languisht, and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladyes love, And 'playning of her pride. Here bore him barefac'd on his bier25 Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall. And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! And art thou dead and gone!30 And didst thou dye for love of me! Break, cruel heart of stone! O weep not, lady, weep not soe; Some ghostly comfort seek: Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,35 Ne teares bedew thy cheek. O do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth, That e'er wan ladyes love.40 And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, I'll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye. Weep no more, lady, weep no more,45 Thy sorrowe is in vaine: For violets pluckt the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe. Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, Why then should sorrow last?50 Since grief but aggravates thy losse, Grieve not for what is past. O say not soe, thou holy friar; I pray thee, say not soe: For since my true-love dyed for mee,55 'Tis meet my tears should flow. And will he ne'er come again? Will he ne'er come again? Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, For ever to remain.60 His cheek was redder than the rose; The comliest youth was he! But he is dead and laid in his grave: Alas, and woe is me! Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,65 Men were deceivers ever: One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never. Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy;70 For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy. Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not soe; My love he had the truest heart:75 O he was ever true! And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, And didst thou dye for mee? Then farewell home; for ever-more A pilgrim I will bee.80 But first upon my true-loves grave My weary limbs I'll lay, And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf, That wraps his breathless clay Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile85 Beneath this cloyster wall: See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind. And drizzly rain doth fall. O stay me not, thou holy friar; O stay me not, I pray;90 No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away. Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears; For see beneath this gown of gray95 Thy owne true-love appears. Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought.100 But haply for my year of grace[892] Is not yet past away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay. Now farewell grief, and welcome joy105 Once more unto my heart; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part.
⁂ As the foregoing song has been thought to have suggested to our late excellent Poet Dr. Goldsmith, the plan of his beautiful ballad of Edwin and Emma (first printed in his Vicar of Wakefield) it is but justice to his memory to declare, that his poem was written first, and that if there is any imitation in the case, they will be found both to be indebted to the beautiful old ballad Gentle Herdsman, &c. printed in the second volume of this Work, which the Doctor had much admired in manuscript, and has finely improved. See vol. ii. book i. song xiv. ver. 37.
FOOTNOTES:
THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK
RELIQUES OF ANCIENT POETRY, ETC.
SERIES THE FIRST.