BOOK II.
Reading edition
I. A BALLAD OF LUTHER, THE POPE, A CARDINAL, AND A HUSBANDMAN.
In the former Book we brought down this second Series of poems, as low as about the middle of the sixteenth century. We now find the Muses deeply engaged in religious controversy. The sudden revolution, wrought in the opinions of mankind by the Reformation, is one of the most striking events in the history of the human mind. It could not but engross the attention of every individual in that age, and therefore no other writings would have any chance to be read, but such as related to this grand topic. The alterations made in the established religion by Henry VIII., the sudden changes it underwent in the three succeeding reigns within so short a space as eleven or twelve years, and the violent struggles between expiring Popery, and growing Protestantism, could not but interest all mankind. Accordingly every pen was engaged in the dispute. The followers of the Old and New Profession (as they were called) had their respective Ballad-makers; and every day produced some popular sonnet for or against the Reformation. The following ballad, and that intitled Little John Nobody, may serve for specimens of the writings of each party. Both were written in the reign of Edward VI.; and are not the worst that were composed upon the occasion. Controversial divinity is no friend to poetic flights. Yet this ballad of Luther and the Pope is not altogether devoid of spirit; it is of the dramatic kind, and the characters are tolerably well sustained; especially that of Luther, which is made to speak in a manner not unbecoming the spirit and courage of that vigorous Reformer. It is printed from the original black-letter copy (in the Pepys collection, vol. i. folio,) to which is prefixed a large wooden cut, designed and executed by some eminent master.
We are not to wonder that the ballad-writers of that age should be inspired with the zeal of controversy, when the very stage teemed with polemic divinity. I have now before me two very ancient quarto black-letter plays: the one published in the time of Henry VIII., intitled, Every Man; the other called Lusty Juventus, printed in the reign of Edward VI. In the former of these, occasion is taken to inculcate great reverence for old mother church and her superstitions:[513] in the other, the poet (one R. Wever) with great success attacks both. So that the Stage in those days literally was, what wise men have always wished it, a supplement to the pulpit:—This was so much the case, that in the play of Lusty Juventus, chapter and verse are every where quoted as formally as in a sermon; take an instance:
"The Lord by his prophet Ezechiel sayeth in this wise playnlye, As in the xxxiij chapter it doth appere: Be converted, O ye children, &c."
From this play we learn that most of the young people were New Gospellers, or friends to the Reformation; and that the old were tenacious of the doctrines imbibed in their youth: for thus the Devil is introduced lamenting the downfal of superstition:
"The olde people would believe stil in my lawes, But the yonger sort leade them a contrary way, They wyl not beleve, they playnly say, In olde traditions, and made by men, &c."
And in another place Hypocrisy urges,
"The worlde was never meri Since chyldren were so boulde: Now every boy will be a teacher, The father a foole, the chyld a preacher."
Of the plays abovementioned, to the first is subjoined the following Printer's Colophon, ¶ Thus endeth this moral playe of Every Man, ¶ Imprynted at London in Powles chyrche yarde by me John Skot. In Mr. Garrick's collection is an imperfect copy of the same play, printed by Richarde Pynson.
The other is intitled, An enterlude called Lusty Juventus: and is thus distinguished at the end: Finis. quod R. Wever. Imprinted at London in Paules churche yeard, by Abraham Vele at the signe of the Lambe. Of this too Mr. Garrick has an imperfect copy of a different edition.
Of these two plays the reader may find some further particulars in the former volume, Appendix II., see The Essay on the Origin of the English Stage; and the curious reader will find the plays themselves printed at large in Hawkins's Origin of the English Drama, 3 vols. Oxford, 1773, 12mo.
The Husbandman.
Let us lift up our hartes all, And prayse the lordes magnificence Which hath given the wolues a fall, And is become our strong defence: For they thorowe a false pretens From Christes bloude dyd all us leade,[514] 5 Gettynge from every man his pence, As satisfactours for the deade. For what we with our Flayles coulde get To kepe our house, and servauntes; 10 That did the Freers[515] from us fet, And with our soules played the merchauntes: And thus they with theyr false warrantes Of our sweate have easelye lyved, That for fatnesse theyr belyes pantes, 15 So greatlye have they us deceaued. They spared not the fatherlesse, The carefull, nor the pore wydowe; They wolde have somewhat more or lesse, If it above the ground did growe: 20 But now we Husbandmen do knowe Al their subteltye, and their false caste;[516] For the lorde hath them overthrowe With his swete word now at the laste.
Doctor Martin Luther.
Thou antichrist, with thy thre crownes, 25 Hast usurped kynges powers, As having power over realmes and townes, Whom thou oughtest to serve all houres: Thou thinkest by thy jugglyng colours Thou maist lykewise Gods word oppresse; 30 As do the deceatful foulers, When they theyr nettes craftelye dresse. Thou flatterest every prince, and lord, Thretening poore men with swearde and fyre; All those, that do followe Gods worde, 35 To make them cleve to thy desire, Theyr bokes thou burnest in flaming fire; Cursing with boke, bell, and candell, Such as to reade them have desyre, Or with them are wyllynge to meddell. 40 Thy false power wyl I bryng down, Thou shalt not raygne many a yere, I shall dryve the from citye and towne, Even with this PEN that thou seyste here: Thou fyghtest with swerd, shylde, and speare, 45 But I wyll fyght with Gods worde; Which is now so open and cleare, That it shall brynge the under the borde.[517]
The Pope.
Though I brought never so many to hel, And to utter dampnacion, 50 Throughe myne ensample, and consel, Or thorow any abhominacion, Yet doth our lawe excuse my fashion. And thou, Luther, arte accursed; For blamynge me, and my condicion, 55 The holy decres have the condempned. Thou stryvest against my purgatory, Because thou findest it not in scripture; As though I by myne auctorite Myght not make one for myne honoure. 60 Knowest thou not, that I have power To make, and mar, in heaven and hell, In erth, and every creature? Whatsoever I do it must be well. As for scripture, I am above it; 65 Am not I Gods hye vicare? Shulde I be bounde to folowe it, As the carpenter his ruler?[518] Nay, nay, hereticks ye are, That will not obey my auctoritie. 70 With this SWORDE I wyll declare, That ye shal al accursed be.
The Cardinal.
I am a Cardinall of Rome, Sent from Christes hye vicary, To graunt pardon to more, and sume, 75 That wil Luther resist strongly: He is a greate hereticke treuly, And regardeth to much the scripture; For he thinketh onely thereby To subdue the popes high honoure. 80 Receive ye this PARDON devoutely, And loke that ye agaynst him fight; Plucke up youre herts, and be manlye, For the pope sayth ye do but ryght: And this be sure, that at one flyghte, 85 Allthough ye be overcome by chaunce, Ye shall to heaven go with greate myghte; God can make you no resistaunce. But these heretikes for their medlynge Shall go down to hel every one; 90 For they have not the popes blessynge, Nor regarde his holy pardòn: They thinke from all destruction By Christes bloud to be saved, Fearynge not our excommunicacion, 95 Therefore shall they al be dampned.
FOOTNOTES:
II. JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.
A Scottish Song.
While in England verse was made the vehicle of controversy, and popery was attacked in it by logical argument, or stinging satire; we may be sure the zeal of the Scottish Reformers would not suffer their pens to be idle, but many a pasquil was discharged at the Romish priests, and their enormous encroachments on property. Of this kind perhaps is the following, (preserved in Maitland's MS. Collection of Scottish poems in the Pepysian library:)
"Tak a Wobster, that is leill, And a Miller, that will not steill, With ane Priest, that is not gredy, And lay ane deid corpse thame by, And, throw virtue of thame three, That deid corpse sall qwyknit be."
Thus far all was fair: but the furious hatred of popery led them to employ their rhymes in a still more licentious manner. It is a received tradition in Scotland, that at the time of the Reformation, ridiculous and obscene songs were composed to be sung by the rabble to the tunes of the most favourite hymns in the Latin service. Green sleeves and pudding pies (designed to ridicule the popish clergy) is said to have been one of these metamorphosed hymns: Maggy Lauder was another: John Anderson my jo was a third. The original music of all these burlesque sonnets was very fine. To give a specimen of their manner, we have inserted one of the least offensive. The reader will pardon the meanness of the composition for the sake of the anecdote, which strongly marks the spirit of the times.
In the present Edition this song is much improved by some new readings communicated by a friend; who thinks by the "Seven Bairns," in st. 2d. are meant the Seven Sacraments; five of which were the spurious offspring of Mother Church: as the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy.
The adaptation of solemn church music to these ludicrous pieces and the jumble of ideas thereby occasioned, will account for the following fact.—From the Records of the General Assembly in Scotland, called, The Book of the Universal Kirk, p. 90, 7th July, 1568, it appears, that Thomas Bassendyne printer in Edinburgh, printed "a psalme buik, in the end whereof was found printit ane baudy sang, called, Welcome Fortunes."[519]
[In the first edition of the Reliques the number of the bairns is fixed at five instead of seven, and the rhyme to five is thrive instead of threven. The last line is
"For four of them were gotten, quhan Willie was awa."
The present copy has thus been altered to support the untenable position that the seven bairns were meant to represent the seven sacraments.
According to tradition John Anderson was formerly the town crier of Kelso, and the song is not of any great antiquity, for it is first found in the Skene MS., the date of which Dauney (Ancient Scottish Melodies, p. 219) fixes at the beginning of the seventeenth century, but which includes, according to Mr. Chappell, an English country dance that first appeared in 1698 (Popular Music of the Olden Time, vol. ii. p. 770).
Burns wrote his song—
"John Anderson my jo John When we were first acquent,"
to the old tune, for Johnson's Musical Museum.]
Woman.
John Anderson my jo, cum in as ye gae bye, And ye sall get a sheips heid weel baken in a pye; Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pat: John Anderson my jo, cum in, and ye's get that.
Man.
And how doe ye, Cummer?[520] and how hae ye threven? And how mony bairns hae ye? Wom. Cummer, I hae seven. Man. Are they to your awin gude man? Wom. Na, Cummer, na; For five of tham were gotten, quhan he was awa.'
FOOTNOTES:
III. LITTLE JOHN NOBODY.
We have here a witty libel on the Reformation under king Edward VI. written about the year 1550, and preserved in the Pepys collection, British Museum, and Strype's Mem. of Cranmer. The author artfully declines entering into the merits of the cause, and wholly reflects on the lives and actions of many of the Reformed. It is so easy to find flaws and imperfections in the conduct of men, even the best of them, and still easier to make general exclamations about the profligacy of the present times, that no great point is gained by arguments of that sort, unless the author could have proved that the principles of the Reformed Religion had a natural tendency to produce a corruption of manners: whereas he indirectly owns, that their reverend father [archbishop Cranmer] had used the most proper means to stem the torrent, by giving the people access to the Scriptures, by teaching them to pray with understanding, and by publishing homilies, and other religious tracts. It must however be acknowledged, that our libeller had at that time sufficient room for just satire. For under the banners of the Reformed had enlisted themselves, many concealed papists, who had private ends to gratify; many that were of no religion; many greedy courtiers, who thirsted after the possessions of the church; and many dissolute persons, who wanted to be exempt from all ecclesiastical censures. And as these men were loudest of all others in their cries for Reformation, so in effect, none obstructed the regular progress of it so much, or by their vicious lives brought vexation and shame more on the truly venerable and pious Reformers.
The reader will remark the fondness of our satirist for alliteration: in this he was guilty of no affectation or singularity; his versification is that of Pierce Plowman's Visions, in which a recurrence of similar letters is essential: to this he has only superadded rhyme, which in his time began to be the general practice. See an Essay on this very peculiar kind of metre, in the appendix to this Volume.
In december, when the dayes draw to be short, After november, when the nights wax noysome and long; As I past by a place privily at a port, I saw one sit by himself making a song: His last[521] talk of trifles, who told with his tongue That few were fast i'th' faith. I 'freyned'[522] that freake,[523] Whether he wanted wit, or some had done him wrong. He said, he was little John Nobody, that durst not speake. John Nobody, quoth I, what news? thou soon note and tell What maner men thou meane, thou are so mad. He said, These gay gallants, that wil construe the gospel, As Solomon the sage, with semblance full sad; To discusse divinity they nought adread; More meet it were for them to milk kye at a fleyke.[524] Thou lyest, quoth I, thou losel,[525] like a leud lad. He said, he was little John Nobody, that durst not speake. Its meet for every man on this matter to talk, And the glorious gospel ghostly to have in mind; It is sothe said, that sect but much unseemly skalk, As boyes babble in books, that in scripture are blind: Yet to their fancy soon a cause will find; As to live in lust, in lechery to leyke:[526] Such caitives count to be come of Cains kind;[527] But that I little John Nobody durst not speake. For our reverend father hath set forth an order, Our service to be said in our seignours tongue; As Solomon the sage set forth the scripture; Our suffrages, and services, with many a sweet song, With homilies, and godly books us among, That no stiff, stubborn stomacks we should freyke:[528] But wretches nere worse to do poor men wrong; But that I little John Nobody dare not speake. For bribery was never so great, since born was our Lord, And whoredom was never les hated, sith Christ harrowed[529] hel, And poor men are so sore punished commonly through the world, That it would grieve any one, that good is, to hear tel. For al the homilies and good books, yet their hearts be so quel,[530] That if a man do amisse, with mischiefs they wil him wreake;[531] The fashion of these new fellows it is so vile and fell: But that I little John Nobody dare not speake. Thus to live after their lust, that life would they have, And in lechery to leyke al their long life; For al the preaching of Paul, yet many a proud knave Wil move mischiefe in their mind both to maid and wife To bring them in advoutry,[532] or else they wil strife, And in brawling about baudery, Gods commandments breake: But of these frantic il fellowes, few of them do thrife; Though I little John Nobody dare not speake. If thou company with them, they wil currishly carp,[533] and not care According to their foolish fantacy; but fast wil they naught: Prayer with them is but prating; therefore they it forbear: Both almes deeds, and holiness, they hate it in their thought: Therefore pray we to that prince, that with his bloud us bought, That he wil mend that is amiss: for many a manful freyke[534] Is sorry for these sects, though they say little or nought; And that I little John Nobody dare not once speake. Thus in NO place, this Nobody, in NO time I met, Where NO man, 'ne'[535] NOUGHT was, nor NOTHING did appear; Through the sound of a synagogue for sorrow I swett, That 'Aeolus'[536] through the eccho did cause me to hear. Then I drew me down into a dale, whereas the dumb deer Did shiver for a shower; but I shunted[537] from a freyke: For I would no wight in this world wist who I were, But little John Nobody, that dare not once speake.
FOOTNOTES:
IV. Q. ELIZABETH'S VERSES, WHILE PRISONER AT WOODSTOCK,
Writ with Charcoal on a Shutter,
Are preserved by Hentzner, in that part of his Travels which has been reprinted in so elegant a manner at Strawberry-hill. In Hentzner's book they were wretchedly corrupted, but are here given as amended by his ingenious editor. The old orthography, and one or two ancient readings of Hentzner's copy, are here restored.
Oh, Fortune! how thy restlesse wavering state Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt! Witnes this present prisonn, whither fate Could beare me, and the joys I quit.[538] Thou causedest the guiltie to be losed 5 From bandes, wherein are innocents inclosed: Causing the guiltles to be straite reserved, And freeing those that death had well deserved. But by her envie can be nothing wroughte, So God send to my foes all they have thoughte. 10
A.D. MDLV. Elizabethe, Prisonner.
FOOTNOTES:
V. THE HEIR OF LINNE.
The original of this ballad is found in the Editor's folio MS., the breaches and defects in which rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. These, it is hoped, the reader will pardon, as indeed the completion of the story was suggested by a modern ballad on a similar subject.
From the Scottish phrases here and there discernible in this poem, it should seem to have been originally composed beyond the Tweed.
The Heir of Linne appears not to have been a Lord of Parliament, but a Laird, whose title went along with his estate.
[In the folio MS. Percy wrote the following note: "This old copy (tho' a very indifferent fragment) I thought deserving of some attention. I have therefore bestowed an entire revisal of the subject for my Reliques, &c." In this revisal, the Bishop swelled out the 125 lines of the original into the 216 of his own version. It has, therefore, been necessary to print a copy of the original at the end of the present ballad. The modern ballad referred to above is the Drunkard's Legacy, printed in J. H. Dixon's Ballads of the Peasantry, but it is only comparatively modern, as it dates back to a period long before Percy's time. The portion which Percy interpolated and took from this ballad, forms the end of the first part and beginning of the second part of the following version.
The incident by which the hidden treasure is discovered occurs in one of the stories of Cinthio's Heccatomithi (Dec. ix. Nov. 8), but the arguments of the two tales are in other respects different. The Scotch claim this ballad as their own. Some suppose the hero to have been an Ayrshire laird, and others that he was from Galloway. Motherwell gives the following verses as the commencement of the traditionary version extant in Scotland:
"The bonnie heir, the weel-faur'd heir, And the weary heir o' Linne, Yonder he stands at his father's gate, And naebody bids him come in, O see whare he gaup and see whare he stands, The weary heir o' Linne, O see whare he stands on the cauld causey, Some ane wuld ta'en him in. But if he had been his father's heir, Or yet the heir o' Linne, He wadna stand on the cauld causey, Some ane wuld ta'en him in."]
Part the First.
Lithe[539] and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne: It is of a lord of faire Scotlànd, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. His father was a right good lord, 5 His mother a lady of high degree; But they, alas! were dead, him froe, And he lov'd keeping companie. To spend the daye with merry cheare, To drinke and revell every night, 10 To card and dice from eve to morne, It was, I ween, his hearts delighte To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, To alwaye spend and never spare, I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, 15 Of gold and fee he mote be bare. Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne Till all his gold is gone and spent; And he maun sell his landes so broad, His house, and landes, and all his rent. 20 His father had a keen stewàrde, And John o' the Scales was called hee: But John is become a gentel-man, And John has gott both gold and fee.[540] Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, 25 Let nought disturb thy merry cheere; Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, Good store of gold Ile give thee heere. My gold is gone, my money is spent; My lande nowe take it unto the: 30 Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, And thine for aye my lande shall bee. Then John he did him to record draw, And John he cast him a gods-pennie;[541] But for every pounde that John agreed, 35 The lande, I wis, was well worth three. He told him the gold upon the borde, He was right glad his land to winne: The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ile be the lord of Linne. 40 Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, Both hill and holt,[542] and moore and fenne, All but a poore and lonesome lodge, That stood far off in a lonely glenne. For soe he to his father hight. 45 My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee, Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free: But sweare me nowe upon the roode, That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; 50 For when all the world doth frown on thee, Thou there shalt find a faithful friend. The heire of Linne is full of golde: And come with me, my friends, sayd hee, Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, 55 And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. They ranted, drank, and merry made, Till all his gold it waxed thinne; And then his friendes they slunk away; They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. 60 He had never a penny left in his purse, Never a penny left but three, And one was brass, another was lead,[543] And another it was white monèy.[543] Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,[543] 65 Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, For when I was the lord of Linne, I never wanted gold nor fee. But many a trustye friend have I, And why shold I feel dole or care? 70 Ile borrow of them all by turnes, Soe need I not be never bare. But one, I wis, was not at home; Another had payd his gold away; Another call'd him thriftless loone, 75 And bade him sharpely wend his way. Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, Now well-aday, and woe is me! For when I had my landes so broad, On me they liv'd right merrilee. 80 To beg my bread from door to door I wis, it were a brenning shame: To rob and steal it were a sinne: To worke my limbs I cannot frame. Now Ile away to lonesome lodge, 85 For there my father bade me wend; When all the world should frown on mee, I there shold find a trusty friend.
Part the Second.
Away then hyed the heire of Linne O'er hill and holt,[544] and moor and fenne, Untill he came to lonesome lodge, That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. He looked up, he looked downe, 5 In hope some comfort for to winne: But bare and lothly[545] were the walles. Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne. The little windowe dim and darke Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; 10 No shimmering sunn here ever shone; No halesome breeze here ever blew. No chair, ne table he mote spye, No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed, Nought save a rope with renning noose, 15 That dangling hung up o'er his head. And over it in broad lettèrs, These words were written so plain to see: "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, And brought thyselfe to penurìe? 20 "And this my boding mind misgave, I therefore left this trusty friend: Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, And all thy shame and sorrows end." Sorely shent[546] wi' this rebuke, 25 Sorely shent was the heire of Linne; His heart, I wis, was near to brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne. Never a word spake the heire of Linne, Never a word he spake but three: 30 "This is a trusty friend indeed, And is right welcome unto mee." Then round his necke the corde he drewe, And sprang aloft with his bodìe:[556] When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, 35 And to the ground came tumbling hee. Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, Ne knewe if he were live or dead: At length he looked, and sawe a bille,[547] And in it a key of gold so redd. 40 He took the bill, and lookt it on, Strait good comfort found he there: Itt told him of a hole in the wall, In which there stood three chests in-fere.[548] Two were full of the beaten golde, 45 The third was full of white monèy; And over them in broad lettèrs These words were written so plaine to see: "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; Amend thy life and follies past; 50 For but thou amend thee of thy life, That rope must be thy end at last." And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne; And let it bee, but if I amend:[549] For here I will make mine avow, 55 This reade[550] shall guide me to the end. Away then went with a merry cheare, Away then went the heire of Linne; I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,[551] Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.[552] 60 And when he came to John o' the Scales, Upp at the speere[553] then looked hee; There sate three lords upon a rowe, Were drinking of the wine so free. And John himself sate at the bord-head, 65 Because now lord of Linne was hee. I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend mee. Away, away, thou thriftless loone; Away, away, this may not bee: 70 For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, If ever I trust thee one pennìe. Then bespake the heire of Linne, To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: Madame, some almes on me bestowe, 75 I pray for sweet saint Charitìe. Away, away, thou thriftless loone, I swear thou gettest no almes of mee; For if we shold hang any losel[554] heere, The first we wold begin with thee. 80 Then bespake a good fellòwe, Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord; Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; Some time thou wast a well good lord: Some time a good fellow thou hast been, 85 And sparedst not thy gold and fee; Therefore Ile lend thee forty pence, And other forty if need bee. And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, To let him sit in thy companie: 90 For well I wot thou hadst his land, And a good bargain it was to thee. Up then spake him John o' the Scales, All wood[555] he answer'd him againe: Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, 95 But I did lose by that bargàine. And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, Before these lords so faire and free, Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee. 100 I drawe you to record, lords, he said. With that he cast him a gods pennie:[556] Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, And here, good John, is thy monèy. And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, 105 And layd them down upon the bord: All woe begone was John o' the Scales, Soe shent he cold say never a word. He told him forth the good red gold, He told it forth [with] mickle dinne. 110 The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ime againe the lord of Linne. Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe, Forty pence thou didst lend mee: Now I am againe the lord of Linne, 115 And forty pounds I will give thee. Ile make the keeper of my forrest, Both of the wild deere and the tame; For but[557] I reward thy bounteous heart, I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame. 120 Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales: Now welladay! and woe is my life! Yesterday I was lady of Linne, Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife. Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; 125 Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee: Christs curse light on me, if ever again I bring my lands in jeopardy.
⁂
†‡† In the present edition of this ballad several ancient readings are restored from the folio MS.
The following original version of the Heir of Linne is reprinted from Hales and Furnivall's edition of the folio MS. vol. i. p. 174:
Off all the lords in faire Scottland a song I will begin: amongst them all there dweld a Lord which was the vnthrifty Lord of linne. 4 his father & mother were dead him froe, & soe was the head of all his kinne; he did neither cease nor blιnne to the cards & dice that he did run, 8 to drinke the wine that was soe cleere, with euery man he wold make merry. and then bespake him John of the Scales, vnto the heire of Linne sayd hee, 12 sayes, "how dost thou, Lord of Linne, doest either want gold or fee? wilt thou not sell thy lands soe brode to such a good fellow as me? 16 "ffor ... I ..." he said, "my land, take it vnto thee, I draw you to record, my Lord[e]s all:" with that he cast him a good-se peny, 20 he told him the gold vpon the bord, it wanted neuer a bare penny. "that gold is thine, the land is mine, the heire of Linne I wilbee." 24 "heeres gold inoughe," saithe the heire of Linne, "both for me & my company." he drunke the wine that was soe cleere, & with euery man he made merry. 28 with-in 3 quarters of a yeere his gold & fee it waxed thinne, his merry men were from him gone, & left him himselfe all alone. 32 he had neuer a penny left in his pursse, neuer a penny but 3, & one was brasse, & another was lead, & another was white mony. 36 "Now well-a day!" said the heire of Linne, "now welladay, & woe is mee! for when I was the lord of Linne, I neither wanted gold nor fee; 40 "for I haue sold my lands soe broad, & haue not left me one penny! I must goe now & take some read vnto Edenborrow, & begg my bread." 44 he had not beene in Edenborrow not 3 qwarters of a yeere, but some did giue him & some said nay, & some bid "to the deele gang yee! 48 "for if we shold hang any Land selfeer, the first we wold begin with thee." "Now welladay!" said the heire of Linne, no[w] welladay, & woe is mee! 52 "for now I have sold my lands soe broad, that mery man is irke with mee; but when that I was the Lord of Linne, then on my land I liued merrily; 56 "& now I have sold my land soe broade that I haue not left me one pennye! god be with my father!" he said, "on his land he liued merrily." 60 Still in a study there as he stood, he vnbethought him of [a] bill [he vnbethought him of a bill] which his father had left with him, 64 bade him he shold neuer on it looke till he was in extreame neede, "& by my faith," said the heire of Linne, "then now I had neuer more neede." 68 he tooke the bill, & looked it on, good comfort that he found there; itt told him of a Castle wall where there stood 3 chests in feare: 72 2 were full of the beaten gold, the 3 was full of white mony. he turned then downe his baggs of bread, & filled them full of gold soe red; 76 then he did neuer cease nor blinne till John of the Scales house he did winne. when that he came to John of the Scales, vpp at the speere he looked then: 80 there sate 3 lords vpon a rowe, and John o the Scales sate at the bords head, [and John o the Scales sate at the bords head] because he was the Lord of Linne. 84 and then bespake the heire of Linne, to John o the Scales wiffe thus sayd hee: sayd, "Dame, wilt thou not trust me one shott that I may sitt downe in this company?" 88 "now, christs curse on my head," shee said, "if I do trust thee one pennye." then bespake a good fellowe, which sate by John o the Scales his knee, 92 Said, "haue thou here, thou heire of linne, 40 pence I will lend thee,— some time a good fellow thou hast beene,— & other 40 if neede bee," 96 thé druken wine that was soe cleere, & euery man thé made merry; & then bespake him John o the Scales, vnto the Lord of linne said hee: 100 said, "how doest thou, heire of Linne, since I did buy thy Lands of thee? I will sell it to thee 20li better cheepe nor euer I did buy it of thee. 104 "I draw you to recorde, lord[e]s all;" with that he cast him gods penny; then he tooke to his baggs of bread, & they were full of the gold soe redd, 108 he told him the gold then over the borde; it wanted neuer a broad pennye: "that gold is thine, the land is mine, & the heire of Linne againe I wilbee." 112 "Now welladay!" said John o the Scales wife, "welladay, & woe is me! Yesterday I was the lady of Linne, & now I am but John o the Scales wiffe!" 116 saies, "haue thou heere, thou good fellow, 40 pence thou did lend me, [40 pence thou did lend me,] & 40^{l}. I will giue thee, 120 Ile make thee keeper of my forrest, both of the wild deere & the tame." but then bespake the heire of Linne, these were the words, & thus said hee, 124 "Christs curse light vpon my crowne if ere my land stand in any Jeopardye!"
ffins]
FOOTNOTES:
VI. GASCOIGNE'S PRAISE OF THE FAIR BRIDGES, AFTERWARDS LADY SANDS,
On Her having a Scar in Her Forehead.
George Gascoigne was a celebrated poet in the early part of Queen Elizabeth's reign, and appears to great advantage among the miscellaneous writers of that age. He was author of three or four plays, and of many smaller poems; one of the most remarkable of which is a satire in blank verse, called the Steele-glass, 1576, 4to.
Gascoigne was born in Essex, educated in both universities, whence he removed to Gray's-inn; but, disliking the study of the law, became first a dangler at court, and afterwards a soldier in the wars of the Low Countries. He had no great success in any of these pursuits, as appears from a poem of his, intitled "Gascoigne's Wodmanship, written to lord Gray of Wilton." Many of his epistles dedicatory are dated in 1575, 1576, from "his poore house in Walthamstoe:" where he died a middle-aged man in 1578, according to Anth. Wood: or rather in 1577, if he is the person meant in an old tract, intitled, "A remembrance of the well employed Life and godly End of Geo. Gascoigne, Esq.; who deceased at Stamford in Lincolnshire, Oct. 7, 1577, by Geo. Whetstone, Gent. an eye-witness of his godly and charitable end in this world," 4to. no date. [From a MS. of Oldys.]
Mr. Thomas Warton thinks "Gascoigne has much exceeded all the poets of his age, in smoothness and harmony of versification."[558] But the truth is, scarce any of the earlier poets of Q. Elizabeth's time are found deficient in harmony and smoothness, tho' those qualities appear so rare in the writings of their successors. In the Paradise of Dainty Devises,[559] (the Dodsley's Miscellany of those times) will hardly be found one rough, or inharmonious line:[560] whereas the numbers of Jonson, Donne, and most of their contemporaries, frequently offend the ear like the filing of a saw. Perhaps this is in some measure to be accounted for from the growing pedantry of that age, and from the writers affecting to run their lines into one another, after the manner of the Latin and Greek poets.
The following poem (which the elegant writer above quoted hath recommended to notice, as possessed of a delicacy rarely to be seen in that early state of our poetry) properly consists of Alexandrines of twelve and fourteen syllables, and is printed from two quarto black-letter collections of Gascoigne's pieces; the first intitled, "A hundreth sundrie flowres, bounde up in one small posie, &c. London, imprinted for Richarde Smith:" without date, but from a letter of H. W. (p. 202), compared with the printer's epist. to the reader, it appears to have been published in 1572, or 3. The other is intitled, "The Posies of George Gascoigne, Esq.; corrected, perfected, and augmented by the author; 1575.—Printed at Lond. for Richard Smith, &c." No year, but the epist. dedicat. is dated 1576.
In the title-page of this last (by way of printer's,[561] or bookseller's device) is an ornamental wooden cut, tolerably well executed, wherein Time is represented drawing the figure of Truth out of a pit or cavern, with this legend, Occulta veritas tempore patet [R. S.] This is mentioned because it is not improbable but the accidental sight of this or some other title-page containing the same device, suggested to Rubens that well-known design of a similar kind, which he has introduced into the Luxemburg gallery,[562] and which has been so justly censured for the unnatural manner of its execution.
The lady here celebrated was Catharine, daughter of Edmond second Lord Chandos, wife of William Lord Sands. See Collins's Peerage, vol. ii. p. 133, ed. 1779.
[George Gascoigne, soldier and poet, had many enemies, and when objection was made to the Privy Council against his return as a burgess for Midhurst, they termed him "a common rymer, ruffian, atheist," &c. Mr. W. C. Hazlitt printed a complete collection of his poems in the Roxburghe Library, 2 vols. London, 1869-70.]
In court whoso demaundes What dame doth most excell; For my conceit I must needes say, Faire Bridges beares the bel. Upon whose lively cheeke, 5 To prove my judgment true, The rose and lillie seeme to strive For equall change of hewe: And therewithall so well Hir graces all agree; 10 No frowning cheere dare once presume In hir sweet face to bee. Although some lavishe lippes Which like some other best, Will say, the blemishe on hir browe 15 Disgraceth all the rest. Thereto I thus replie; God wotte, they little knowe The hidden cause of that mishap, Nor how the harm did growe: 20 For when dame Nature first Had framde hir heavenly face, And thoroughly bedecked it With goodly gleames of grace; It lyked hir so well: 25 Lo here, quod she, a peece For perfect shape, that passeth all Appelles' worke in Greece. This bayt may chaunce to catche The greatest God of love, 30 Or mightie thundring Jove himself, That rules the roast above. But out, alas! those wordes Were vaunted all in vayne; And some unseen wer present there, 35 Pore Bridges, to thy pain. For Cupide, crafty boy, Close in a corner stoode, Not blyndfold then, to gaze on hir: I gesse it did him good. 40 Yet when he felte the flame Gan kindle in his brest, And herd dame Nature boast by hir To break him of his rest, His hot newe-chosen love 45 He chaunged into hate, And sodeynly with mightie mace Gan rap hir on the pate. It greeved Nature muche To see the cruell deede: 50 Mee seemes I see hir, how she wept To see hir dearling bleede. Wel yet, quod she, this hurt Shal have some helpe I trowe: And quick with skin she coverd it, 55 That whiter is than snowe. Wherwith Dan Cupide fled, For feare of further flame, When angel-like he saw hir shine, Whome he had smit with shame. 60 Lo, thus was Bridges hurt In cradel of hir kind.[563] The coward Cupide brake hir browe To wreke his wounded mynd. The skar still there remains; 65 No force, there let it bee: There is no cloude that can eclipse So bright a sunne, as she.
FOOTNOTES:
VII. FAIR ROSAMOND.
Most of the circumstances in this popular story of king Henry II. and the beautiful Rosamond have been taken for fact by our English historians; who, unable to account for the unnatural conduct of queen Eleanor in stimulating her sons to rebellion, have attributed it to jealousy, and supposed that Henry's amour with Rosamond was the object of that passion.
Our old English annalists seem, most of them, to have followed Higden the monk of Chester, whose account, with some enlargements, is thus given by Stow:—"Rosamond the fayre daughter of Walter lord Clifford, concubine to Henry II. (poisoned by queen Elianor, as some thought) dyed at Woodstocke [A.D. 1177] where king Henry had made for her a house of wonderfull working; so that no man or woman might come to her, but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right secret with him touching the matter. This house after some was named Labyrinthus, or Dedalus worke, which was wrought like unto a knot in a garden, called a maze;[564] but it was commonly said, that lastly the queene came to her by a clue of thridde, or silke, and so dealt with her, that she lived not long after: but when she was dead, she was buried at Godstow in an house of nunnes, beside Oxford, with these verses upon her tombe:—
'Hic jacet in tumba, Rosa mundi, non Rosa munda: Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet.'
"In English thus:—
'The rose of the world, but not the cleane flowre, Is now here graven; to whom beauty was lent: In this grave full darke nowe is her bowre, That by her life was sweete and redolent: But now that she is from this life blent, Though she were sweete, now foully doth she stinke. A mirrour good for all men, that on her thinke.'"
Stowe's Annals, ed. 1631, p. 154.
How the queen gained admittance into Rosamond's bower is differently related. Hollinshed speaks of it, as "the common report of the people, that the queene ... founde hir out by a silken thread, which the king had drawne after him out of hir chamber with his foot, and dealt with hir in such sharpe and cruell wise, that she lived not long after." Vol. iii. p. 115. On the other hand, in Speede's Hist. we are told that the jealous queen found her out "by a clew of silke, fallen from Rosamund's lappe, as shee sate to take ayre, and suddenly fleeing from the sight of the searcher, the end of her silke fastened to her foot, and the clew still unwinding, remained behinde: which the queene followed, till she had found what she sought, and upon Rosamund so vented her spleene, as the lady lived not long after." 3rd edit. p. 509. Our ballad-maker with more ingenuity, and probably as much truth, tells us the clue was gained by surprise, from the knight who was left to guard her bower.
It is observable, that none of the old writers attribute Rosamond's death to poison (Stow, above, mentions it merely as a slight conjecture); they only give us to understand, that the queen treated her harshly; with furious menaces, we may suppose, and sharp expostulations, which had such effect on her spirits, that she did not long survive it. Indeed on her tomb-stone, as we learn from a person of credit,[565] among other fine sculptures, was engraven the figure of a cup. This, which perhaps at first was an accidental ornament (perhaps only the chalice) might in after times suggest the notion that she was poisoned; at least this construction was put upon it, when the stone came to be demolished after the nunnery was dissolved. The account is, that "the tomb-stone of Rosamund Clifford was taken up at Godstow, and broken in pieces, and that upon it were interchangeable weavings drawn out and decked with roses red and green, and the picture of the cup, out of which she drank the poison given her by the queen, carved in stone."
Rosamond's father having been a great benefactor to the nunnery of Godstow, where she had also resided herself in the innocent part of her life, her body was conveyed there, and buried in the middle of the choir; in which place it remained till the year 1191, when Hugh bishop of Lincoln caused it to be removed. The fact is recorded by Hoveden, a contemporary writer, whose words are thus translated by Stow: "Hugh bishop of Lincolne came to the abbey of nunnes, called Godstow, ... and when he had entred the church to pray, he saw a tombe in the middle of the quire, covered with a pall of silke, and set about with lights of waxe: and demanding whose tomb it was, he was answered, that it was the tombe of Rosamond, that was some time lemman to Henry II.... who for the love of her had done much good to that church. Then quoth the bishop, take out of this place the harlot, and bury her without the church, lest christian religion should grow in contempt, and to the end that, through example of her, other women being made afraid may beware, and keepe themselves from unlawfull and advouterous company with men."—Annals, p. 159.
History further informs us, that king John repaired Godstow nunnery, and endowed it with yearly revenues, "that these holy virgins might releeve with their prayers, the soules of his father king Henrie, and of lady Rosamund there interred."[566] ... In what situation her remains were found at the dissolution of the nunnery, we learn from Leland: "Rosamundes tumbe at Godstowe nunnery was taken up [of] late; it is a stone with this inscription, Tumba Rosamundæ. Her bones were closid in lede, and withyn that bones were closyd yn lether. When it was opened a very swete smell came owt of it."[567] See Hearne's discourse above quoted, written in 1718; at which time he tells us, were still seen by the pool at Woodstock the foundations of a very large building, which were believed to be the remains of Rosamond's labyrinth.
To conclude this (perhaps too prolix) account, Henry had two sons by Rosamond, from a computation of whose age, a modern historian has endeavoured to invalidate the received story. These were William Longue-espé (or Long-sword), earl of Salisbury, and Geoffrey, bishop of Lincolne.[568] Geoffrey was the younger of Rosamond's sons, and yet is said to have been twenty years old at the time of his election to that see in 1173. Hence this writer concludes, that king Henry fell in love with Rosamond in 1149, when in king Stephen's reign he came over to be knighted by the king of Scots; he also thinks it probable that Henry's commerce with this lady "broke off upon his marriage with Eleanor (in 1152) and that the young lady, by a natural effect of grief and resentment at the defection of her lover, entered on that occasion into the nunnery of Godstowe, where she died probably before the rebellion of Henry's sons in 1173." (Carte's Hist. vol. i. p. 652.) But let it be observed, that Henry was but sixteen years old when he came over to be knighted; that he staid but eight months in this island, and was almost all the time with the king of Scots; that he did not return back to England till 1153, the year after his marriage with Eleanor; and that no writer drops the least hint of Rosamond's having ever been abroad with her lover, nor indeed is it probable that a boy of sixteen should venture to carry over a mistress to his mother's court. If all these circumstances are considered, Mr. Carte's account will be found more incoherent and improbable than that of the old ballad; which is also countenanced by most of our old historians.
Indeed the true date of Geoffrey's birth, and consequently of Henry's commerce with Rosamond, seems to be best ascertained from an ancient manuscript in the Cotton library: wherein it is thus registered of Geoffrey Plantagenet: "Natus est 5° Hen. II. [1159.] Factus est miles 25° Hen. II. [1179.] Elect. in Episcop. Lincoln. 28° Hen. II. [1182.]" Vid. Chron. de Kirkstall (Domitian XII.) Drake's Hist. of York, p. 422.
The ballad of Fair Rosamond appears to have been first published in "Strange Histories, or Songs and Sonnets, of Kinges, Princes, Dukes, Lords, Ladyes, Knights, and Gentlemen, &c. By Thomas Delone. Lond. 1607." 12mo.
It is here printed (with conjectural emendations), from four ancient copies in black-letter; two of them in the Pepys library.
[It is also printed in the Crown Garland of Golden Roses, and Garland of Goodwill. Reprinted by the Percy Society.
In the Collection of Old Ballads, 1723, vol. i. p. 1, is another ballad on the same subject, with the title, The Unfortunate Concubine, or Rosamond's Overthrow.
The story is also treated in Warner's Albion's England (ch. 41).]
When as king Henry rulde this land, The second of that name, Besides the queene, he dearly lovde A faire and comely dame. Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, 5 Her favour, and her face; A sweeter creature in this worlde Could never prince embrace. Her crisped lockes like threads of golde Appeard to each mans sight; 10 Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, Did cast a heavenlye light. The blood within her crystal cheekes Did such a colour drive, As though the lillye and the rose 15 For mastership did strive. Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde, Her name was called so, To whom our queene, dame Ellinor, Was known a deadlye foe. 20 The king therefore, for her defence, Against the furious queene, At Woodstocke builded such a bower, The like was never seene. Most curiously that bower was built 25 Of stone and timber strong, An hundered and fifty doors Did to this bower belong: And they so cunninglye contriv'd With turnings round about, 30 That none but with a clue of thread, Could enter in or out. And for his love and ladyes sake, That was so faire and brighte, The keeping of this bower he gave 35 Unto a valiant knighte. But fortune, that doth often frowne Where she before did smile, The kinges delighte and ladyes joy Full soon shee did beguile: 40 For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised warres Within the realme of France. But yet before our comelye king 45 The English land forsooke, Of Rosamond, his lady faire, His farewelle thus he tooke: "My Rosamonde, my only Rose, That pleasest best mine eye: 50 The fairest flower in all the worlde To feed my fantasye: The flower of mine affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excelle: My royal Rose, a thousand times 55 I bid thee nowe farwelle! For I must leave my fairest flower, My sweetest Rose, a space, And cross the seas to famous France, Proud rebelles to abase. 60 But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt My coming shortlye see, And in my heart, when hence I am, Ile beare my Rose with mee." When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, 65 Did heare the king saye soe, The sorrowe of her grieved heart Her outward lookes did showe; And from her cleare and crystall eyes The teares gusht out apace, 70 Which like the silver-pearled dewe Ranne downe her comely face. Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, Did waxe both wan and pale, And for the sorrow she conceivde 75 Her vitall spirits faile; And falling down all in a swoone Before king Henryes face, Full oft he in his princelye armes Her bodye did embrace: 80 And twentye times, with watery eyes, He kist her tender cheeke, Untill he had revivde againe Her senses milde and meeke. Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose? 85 The king did often say. Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres My lord must part awaye. But since your grace on forrayne coastes Amonge your foes unkinde 90 Must goe to hazard life and limbe, Why should I staye behinde? Nay rather, let me, like a page, Your sworde and target beare; That on my breast the blowes may lighte, 95 Which would offend you there. Or lett mee, in your royal tent, Prepare your bed at nighte, And with sweete baths refresh your grace, At your returne from fighte. 100 So I your presence may enjoye No toil I will refuse; But wanting you, my life is death; Nay, death Ild rather chuse! "Content thy self, my dearest love; 105 Thy rest at home shall bee In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle; For travell fits not thee. Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; Soft peace their sexe delightes; 110 'Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; Gay feastes, not cruell fightes.' My Rose shall safely here abide, With musicke passe the daye; Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes, 115 My foes seeke far awaye. My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde, Whilst Ime in armour dighte; Gay galliards here my love shall dance, Whilst I my foes goe fighte. 120 And you, sir Thomas, whom I truste To bee my loves defence; Be carefull of my gallant Rose When I am parted hence." And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, 125 As though his heart would breake: And Rosamonde, for very griefe, Not one plaine word could speake. And at their parting well they mighte In heart be grieved sore: 130 After that daye faire Rosamonde The king did see no more. For when his grace had past the seas, And into France was gone, With envious heart, queene Ellinor, 135 To Woodstocke came anone. And forth she calles this trustye knighte, In an unhappy houre; Who with his clue of twined thread, Came from this famous bower. 140 And when that they had wounded him, The queene this thread did gette, And went where ladye Rosamonde Was like an angell sette. But when the queene with stedfast eye 145 Beheld her beauteous face, She was amazed in her minde At her exceeding grace. Cast off from thee those robes, she said, That riche and costlye bee; 150 And drinke thou up this deadlye draught, Which I have brought to thee. Then presentlye upon her knees Sweet Rosamonde did falle; And pardon of the queene she crav'd 155 For her offences all. "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares, Faire Rosamonde did crye; And lett mee not with poison stronge Enforced bee to dye. 160 I will renounce my sinfull life, And in some cloyster bide; Or else be banisht, if you please, To range the world soe wide. And for the fault which I have done, 165 Though I was forc'd theretoe, Preserve my life, and punish mee As you thinke meet to doe." And with these words, her lillie handes She wrunge full often there; 170 And downe along her lovely face Did trickle many a teare. But nothing could this furious queene Therewith appeased bee; The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, 175 As she knelt on her knee, Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke; Who tooke it in her hand, And from her bended knee arose, And on her feet did stand: 180 And casting up her eyes to heaven, Shee did for mercye calle; And drinking up the poyson stronge, Her life she lost withalle. And when that death through everye limbe 185 Had showde its greatest spite, Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse Shee was a glorious wighte. Her body then they did entomb, When life was fled away, 190 At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, As may be seene this day.
*
FOOTNOTES:
VIII. QUEEN ELEANOR'S CONFESSIÓN.
"Eleanor, the daughter and heiress of William duke of Guienne, and count of Poictou, had been married sixteen years to Louis VII. king of France, and had attended him in a croisade, which that monarch commanded against the infidels; but having lost the affections of her husband, and even fallen under some suspicions of gallantry with a handsome Saracen, Louis, more delicate than politic, procured a divorce from her, and restored her those rich provinces, which by her marriage she had annexed to the crown of France. The young count of Anjou, afterwards Henry II. king of England, tho' at that time but in his nineteenth year, neither discouraged by the disparity of age, nor by the reports of Eleanor's gallantry, made such successful courtship to that princess, that he married her six weeks after her divorce, and got possession of all her dominions as a dowery. A marriage thus founded upon interest was not likely to be very happy: it happened accordingly, Eleanor, who had disgusted her first husband by her gallantries, was no less offensive to her second by her jealousy: thus carrying to extremity, in the different parts of her life, every circumstance of female weakness. She had several sons by Henry, whom she spirited up to rebel against him; and endeavouring to escape to them disguised in man's apparel in 1173, she was discovered and thrown into a confinement, which seems to have continued till the death of her husband in 1189. She however survived him many years: dying in 1204, in the sixth year of the reign of her youngest son, John." See Hume's Hist. 4to. vol. i. pp. 260, 307. Speed, Stow, &c.
It is needless to observe, that the following ballad (given, with some corrections, from an old printed copy) is altogether fabulous; whatever gallantries Eleanor encouraged in the time of her first husband, none are imputed to her in that of her second.
[The idea of the unlucky shrift exhibited in the following ballad is taken from some old story-teller. It occurs among the tales of Boccaccio, Bandello, Barbazan, La Fontaine, and several other writers.
A copy of this ballad, differing very considerably from the present version, is to be found in Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads. The first stanza is as follows:—
"The queen fell sick, and very, very sick She was sick and like to dee And she sent for a frier oure frae France Her confessour to be."
The last stanza but four reads:—
"And do you see yon pretty little girl That's a beclad in green? She's a friar's daughter oure in France And I hoped to see her a queen."
And the end as follows:—
"The king look'd over his left shoulder, An angry man was he:— An it werna for the oath I sware Earl Marshall, thou shouldst dee."
Another version, recovered from recitation, and more like Percy's than Kinloch's, is printed by Motherwell in his Minstrelsy, under the title of "Earl Marshall."]
Queene Elianor was a sicke womàn. And afraid that she should dye: Then she sent for two fryars of France To speke with her speedilye. The king calld downe his nobles all, 5 By one, by two, by three; "Earl marshall, Ile goe shrive the queene, And thou shalt wend with mee." A boone, a boone; quoth earl marshàll, And fell on his bended knee; 10 That whatsoever queene Elianor saye, No harme therof may bee. Ile pawne my landes, the king then cryd, My sceptre, crowne, and all, That whatsoere queen Elianor sayes 15 No harme thereof shall fall. Do thou put on a fryars coat, And Ile put on another; And we will to queen Elianor goe Like fryar and his brother. 20 Thus both attired then they goe: When they came to Whitehall, The bells did ring, and the quiristers sing, And the torches did lighte them all. When that they came before the queene 25 They fell on their bended knee; A boone, a boone, our gracious queene, That you sent so hastilee. Are you two fryars of France, she sayd, As I suppose you bee, 30 But if you are two Englishe fryars, You shall hang on the gallowes tree. We are two fryars of France, they sayd, As you suppose we bee, We have not been at any masse 35 Sith we came from the sea. The first vile thing that ever I did I will to you unfolde; Earl marshall had my maidenhed, Beneath this cloth of golde. 40 Thats a vile sinne, then sayd the king; May God forgive it thee! Amen, amen, quoth earl marshall; With a heavye heart spake hee. The next vile thing that ever I did, 45 To you Ile not denye, I made a boxe of poyson strong, To poison king Henrye. Thats a vile sinne, then sayd the king, May God forgive it thee! 50 Amen, amen, quoth earl marshall; And I wish it so may bee. The next vile thing that ever I did, To you I will discover; I poysoned fair Rosamonde, 55 All in fair Woodstocke bower. Thats a vile sinne, then sayd the king; May God forgive it thee! Amen, amen, quoth earl marshal; And I wish it so may bee. 60 Do you see yonders little boye, A tossing of the balle? That is earl marshalls eldest sonne,[569] And I love him the best of all. Do you see yonders little boye, 65 A catching of the balle? That is king Henryes youngest sonne,[569] And I love him the worst of all. His head is fashyon'd like a bull; 70 His nose is like a boare. No matter for that, king Henrye cryd, I love him the better therfore. The king pulled off his fryars coate, And appeared all in redde: 75 She shrieked, and cryd, and wrung her hands, And sayd she was betrayde. The king lookt over his left shoulder, And a grimme look looked hee, Earl marshall, he sayd, but for my oathe, 80 Or hanged thou shouldst bee.
FOOTNOTES:
IX. THE STURDY ROCK.
This poem, subscribed M. T. (perhaps invertedly for T. Marshall[570]) is preserved in The Paradise of Daintie Devises. The two first stanzas may be found accompanied with musical notes in "An howres recreation in musicke, &c. by Richard Alison, Lond. 1606, 4to." usually bound up with three or four sets of "Madrigals set to music by Tho. Weelkes, Lond. 1597, 1600, 1608, 4to." One of these madrigals is so compleat an example of the bathos, that I cannot forbear presenting it to the reader:—
"Thule, the period of cosmographie, Doth vaunt of Hecla, whose sulphureous fire Doth melt the frozen clime, and thaw the skie, Trinacrian Ætna's flames ascend not hier: These things seeme wondrous, yet more wondrous I, Whose heart with feare doth freeze, with love doth fry. "The Andelusian merchant, that returnes Laden with cutchinele and china dishes, Reports in Spaine, how strangely Fogo burnes Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes: These things seeme wondrous, yet more wondrous I, Whose heart with feare doth freeze, with love doth fry."
Mr. Weelkes seems to have been of opinion, with many of his brethren of later times, that nonsense was best adapted to display the powers of musical composure.
[Percy's conjecture that the author is Marshall is not a happy one. Sir Egerton Brydges, in his edition of the Paradise, 1810 (British Bibliographer, vol. iii.), attributes it to M. Thorn, whose name is signed to another poem, numbered 52:—
"Now mortall man beholde and see, This worlde is but a vanitie,"
written in much the same spirit. The heading to the Sturdy Rock is:—
"Man's flitting life fyndes surest stay, Where sacred vertue beareth sway."]
The sturdy rock for all his strength By raging seas is rent in twaine: The marble stone is pearst at length, With little drops of drizling rain: The oxe doth yeeld unto the yoke, 5 The steele obeyeth the hammer stroke. The stately stagge, that seemes so stout, By yalping hounds at bay is set: The swiftest bird, that flies about, Is caught at length in fowlers net: 10 The greatest fish, in deepest brooke, Is soon deceived by subtill hooke. Yea man himselfe, unto whose will All things are bounden to obey, For all his wit and worthie skill, 15 Doth fade at length, and fall away. There is nothing but time doeth waste; The heavens, the earth consume at last. But vertue sits triumphing still Upon the throne of glorious fame: 20 Though spiteful death mans body kill, Yet hurts he not his vertuous name: By life or death what so betides, The state of vertue never slides.
FOOTNOTES:
X. THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL-GREEN.
This popular old ballad was written in the reign of Elizabeth, as appears not only from ver. 23, where the arms of England are called the "Queenes armes;" but from its tune's being quoted in other old pieces, written in her time. See the ballad on Mary Ambree in this volume. The late Mr. Guthrie assured the editor that he had formerly seen another old song on the same subject, composed in a different measure from this; which was truly beautiful, if we may judge from the only stanza he remembered. In this it was said of the old beggar, that "down his neck
"——his reverend lockes In comelye curles did wave; And on his aged temples grewe The blossomes of the grave."
The following ballad is chiefly given from the Editor's folio MS. compared with two ancient printed copies: the concluding stanzas, which contain the old beggar's discovery of himself, are not however given from any of these, being very different from those of the vulgar ballad. Nor yet does the Editor offer them as genuine, but as a modern attempt to remove the absurdities and inconsistencies, which so remarkably prevailed in this part of the song, as it stood before: whereas by the alteration of a few lines, the story is rendered much more affecting, and is reconciled to probability and true history. For this informs us, that at the decisive battle of Evesham (fought Aug. 4, 1265), when Simon de Montfort, the great Earl of Leicester, was slain at the head of the barons, his eldest son Henry fell by his side, and in consequence of that defeat, his whole family sunk for ever, the king bestowing their great honours and possessions on his second son, Edmund earl of Lancaster.
[This charming old ballad has enjoyed a long life of popularity, and according to Mr. Chappell it is still kept in print in Seven Dials, and sung about the country. As it is to be found in most collections, it has not been thought necessary to take note of the various trifling alterations which Percy made, but the six stanzas which he ejected in favour of the eight between brackets are printed at the end. A few of the alterations are improvements, but most of them are the reverse; thus, in place of the received reading of verse 28,
"Was straightway in love with pretty Bessee,"
Percy prints
"Was straightway enamourd of pretty Bessee."
Mr. John Pickford (Notes and Queries, 4th Series, vol. ix. p. 64) once possessed an old mezzotint engraving of the Blind Beggar of a large folio size, on the margin of which were inscribed the lines referred to above. In Robert Greene's Pandosto (1588), from which Shakspere drew the plot of his Winter's Tale, there is the same simile as is used in these verses. Egistus says:—"Thou seest my white hayres are blossomes for the grave."
Pepys in his Diary (25th June, 1663), speaks of going to dinner with Sir William and Lady Batten and Sir J. Minnes to Sir William Ryder's at Bethnall Green, and adds: "This very house was built by the blind beggar of Bednall Green, so much talked of and sang in ballads, but they say it was only some outhouse of it." The mansion was built by John Kirby, a citizen of London, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and afterwards became the residence of Sir Hugh Platt, author of The Jewell House of Art and Nature, 1594; The Garden of Eden, &c. Ryder died there in 1669.]
Part the First.
Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; And many a gallant brave suiter had shee, For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee. And though shee was of favor most faire, 5 Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee. Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say, Good father, and mother, let me goe away 10 To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee. This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee. Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night From father and mother alone parted shee; 15 Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee. Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow; Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: With teares shee lamented her hard destinìe, So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee. 20 Shee kept on her journey untill it was day, And went unto Rumford along the hye way; Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee: Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee. Shee had not beene there a month to an end, 25 But master and mistres and all was her friend: And every brave gallant, that once did her see, Was straight-way enamourd of pretty Bessee. Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, And in their songs daylye her love was extold; 30 Her beawtye was blazed in every degree; Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee. The young men of Rumford in her had their joy; Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; And at her commandment still wold they bee; 35 Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee. Foure suitors att once unto her did goe; They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee. Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee. 40 The first of them was a gallant young knight, And he came unto her disguisde in the night: The second a gentleman of good degree, Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee. A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small, 45 He was the third suiter, and proper withall: Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee. And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; 50 My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtìe, That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee. The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee, As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee: My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee; 55 And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee. Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay; My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, And I will for ever love pretty Bessee. 60 Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus shee did say, My father and mother I meane to obey; First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee. To every one this answer shee made, 65 Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; But where dwells thy father, my prettye Bessee? My father, shee said, is soone to be seene: The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene, 70 That daylye sits begging for charitìe, He is the good father of pretty Bessee. His markes and his tokens are knowen very well; He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee, 75 Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee. Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee: Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree, And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee! 80 Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, I waighe not true love by the waight of the pursse, And bewtye is bewtye in every degree; Then welcome unto me, my pretty Bessee. With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe. 85 Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe; A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee. But soone after this, by breake of the day The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away. 90 The younge men of Rumford, as thicke [as] might bee, Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee. As swifte as the winde to ryde they were seene, Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene; And as the knight lighted most courteouslìe, 95 They all fought against him for pretty Bessee. But rescew came speedilye over the plaine, Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. This fray being ended, then straitway he see His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee. 100 Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore, Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle. And then, if my gold may better her birthe, 105 And equall the gold that you lay on the earth, Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. But first you shall promise, and have itt well knowne, The gold that you drop shall all be your owne. 110 With that they replyed, Contented bee wee. Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee. With that an angell he cast on the ground, And dropped in angels full three thousand[571] pound; And oftentimes itt was proved most plaine, 115 For the gentlemens one the beggar dropt twayne: Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt, With gold it was covered every whitt. The gentlemen then having dropt all their store, Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more. 120 Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright. Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne. The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, 125 Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene: And all those, that were her suitors before, Their fleshe for very anger they tore. Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight, And then made a ladye in others despite: 130 A fairer ladye there never was seene, Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene. But of their sumptuous marriage and feast, What brave lords and knights thither were prest, The second fitt[572] shall set forth to your sight 135 With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.
Part the Second.
Off a blind beggars daughter most bright, That late was betrothed unto a younge knight; All the discourse therof you did see; But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee. Within a gorgeous palace most brave, 5 Adorned with all the cost they cold have, This wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe, And all for the creditt of pretty Bessee. All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; 10 Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee. This marriage through England was spread by report, Soe that a great number therto did resort Of nobles and gentles in every degree; 15 And all for the fame of prettye Bessee. To church then went this gallant younge knight; His bride followed after, an angell most bright, With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was seene As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene. 20 This marryage being solempnized then, With musicke performed by the skilfullest men, The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, Each one admiring the beautifull bryde. Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, 25 To talke, and to reason a number begunn: They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, And what with his daughter he gave to the knight. Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee, This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see." 30 My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. "The prayse of a woman in questyon to bringe Before her own face, were a flattering thinge; But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they, 35 "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye." They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee. 40 He had a daintye lute under his arme, He touched the strings, which made such a charme, Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee, Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee. With that his lute he twanged straightway, 45 And thereon begann most sweetlye to play; And after that lessons were playd two or three, He strayn'd out this song most delicatelìe. "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: 50 A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, And many one called her pretty Bessee. "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land. But beggd for a penny all day with his hand; And yett to her marriage hee gave thousands three,[573] 55 And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee. "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine, Her father is ready, with might and with maine, To proove shee is come of noble degree: Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee." 60 With that the lords and the companye round With harty laughter were readye to swound; Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see, The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee. On this the bride all blushing did rise, 65 The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee, That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee. If this be thy father, the nobles did say, Well may he be proud of this happy day; 70 Yett by his countenance well may wee see, His birth and his fortune did never agree: And therfore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, (And looke that the truth thou to us doe say) Thy birth and thy parentage, what itt may bee; 75 For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee." "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, One song more to sing, and then I have done; And if that itt may not winn good report, Then doe not give me a groat for my sport. 80 "[Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee; Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race. "When the barons in armes did king Henrye oppose, Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose; 86 A leader of courage undaunted was hee, And oft-times he made their enemyes flee. "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine[574] The barons were routed, and Montfort was slaine; 90 Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee! "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side, Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! 95 A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. "Among the dead bodyes all lifelesse he laye, Till evening drewe on of the following daye, When by a yong ladye discoverd was hee; And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee! 100 "A baron's faire daughter stept forth in the nighte To search for her father, who fell in the fight, And seeing yong Montfort, where gasping he laye, Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye. "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, 105 While he throughe the realme was beleevd to be slaine: At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, And made him glad father of prettye Bessee. "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; 110 Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.] "And here have wee lived in fortunes despite, Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: Full forty winters thus have I beene 115 A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene. "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: And thus have you learned a secrette from mee, That ne'er had beene knowne, but for prettye Bessee." 120 Now when the faire companye everye one, Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, They all were amazed, as well they might bee, Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee. With that the faire bride they all did embrace, 125 Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race, Thy father likewise is of noble degree, And thou art well worthy a lady to bee. Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte, 130 In joy and felicitie long lived hee, All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
⁂
[The following stanzas (ll. 217-240 of the whole ballad), were rejected by Percy in favour of the verses above which are between brackets, and were written by Robert Dodsley, the bookseller and author:—
"When ffirst our king his ffame did Advance, & fought for his title in delicate ffrance, in many a place many perills past hee: then was not borne my pretty Bessye. "And then in those warres went over to fight many a braue duke, a Lord, & a Knight, & with them younge Mountford, his courage most free: but then was not borne my pretty Bessye. "Att Bloyes there chanced a terrible day, where many braue ffrenchmen vpon the ground Lay; amonge them Lay Mountford for companye: but then was not borne my pretty Bessye.[575] "But there did younge Mountford, by blow on the face, loose both his eyes in a very short space; & alsoe his liffe had beene gone with his sight, had not a younge woman come forth in the night "Amongst the slaine men, as fancy did moue, to search & to seeke for her owne true loue; & seeing young Mountford there gasping to bee, shee saued his liffe through charitye. "And then all our vittalls, in Beggar attire att hands of good people wee then did require. att last into England, as now it is seene, wee came, & remained att Bednall greene."[576]
†‡† The word fit for part, often occurs in our ancient ballads and metrical romances: which being divided into several parts for the convenience of singing them at public entertainments, were in the intervals of the feast sung by fits, or intermissions. So Puttenham in his Art of English Poesie, 1589, says: "the Epithalamie was divided by breaches into three partes to serve for three several fits, or times to be sung." P. 41.
From the same writer we learn some curious particulars relative to the state of ballad-singing in that age, that will throw light on the present subject: speaking of the quick returns of one manner of tune in the short measures used by common rhymers; these, he says, "glut the eare, unless it be in small and popular musickes, sung by these Cantabanqui, upon benches and barrels heads, where they have none other audience then boys or countrey fellowes, that passe by them in the streete; or else by blind harpers, or such like taverne minstrels, that give a fit of mirth for a groat, ... their matter being for the most part stories of old time, as the tale of Sir Topas, the reportes of Bevis of Southampton, Guy of Warwicke, Adam Bell and Clymme of the Clough, and such other old romances or historical rimes, made purposely for recreation of the common people at Christmasse dinners and brideales, and in tavernes and alehouses, and such other places of base resorte." P. 69.
This species of entertainment, which seems to have been handed down from the ancient bards, was in the time of Puttenham falling into neglect; but that it was not, even then, wholly excluded from more genteel assemblies, he gives us room to infer from another passage: "We ourselves," says this courtly[577] writer, "have written for pleasure a little brief romance, or historical ditty in the English tong of the Isle of Great Britaine in short and long meetres, and by breaches or divisions (i.e. fits), to be more commodiously sung to the harpe in places of assembly, where the company shal be desirous to heare of old adventures, and valiaunces of noble knights in times past, as are those of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, Sir Bevys of Southampton, Guy of Warwicke, and others like." P. 33.
In more ancient times no grand scene of festivity was compleat without one of these reciters to entertain the company with feats of arms, and tales of knighthood, or, as one of these old minstrels says, in the beginning of an ancient romance on Guy and Colbronde, in the Editor's folio MS. p. 349 [ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii., p. 527]:
"When meate and drinke is great plentyè, And lords and ladyes still wil bee, And sitt and solace lythe;[578] Then itt is time for mee to speake Of keene knightes, and kempès great, Such carping for to kythe."
If we consider that a groat in the age of Elizabeth was more than equivalent to a shilling now, we shall find that the old harpers were even then, when their art was on the decline, upon a far more reputable footing than the ballad-singers of our time. The reciting of one such ballad as this of the Beggar of Bednal Green, in two parts, was rewarded with half-a-crown of our money. And that they made a very respectable appearance, we may learn from the dress of the old beggar, in the preceding ballad, p. 178, where he comes into company in the habit and character of one of these minstrels, being not known to be the bride's father till after her speech, ver. 63. The exordium of his song, and his claiming a groat for his reward, v. 76, are peculiarly characteristic of that profession. Most of the old ballads begin in a pompous manner, in order to captivate the attention of the audience, and induce them to purchase a recital of the song: and they seldom conclude the first part without large promises of still greater entertainment in the second. This was a necessary piece of art to incline the hearers to be at the expense of a second groat's-worth. Many of the old romances extend to eight or nine fits, which would afford a considerable profit to the reciter.
To return to the word fit; it seems at one time to have peculiarly signified the pause, or breathing-time, between the several parts (answering to Passus in the Visions of Pierce Plowman): thus in the ancient ballad of Chevy-Chase (vol. i. p. 27), the first part ends with this line:
"The first fit here I fynde:"
i.e. here I come to the first pause or intermission. (See also vol. i. p. 44.) By degrees it came to signify the whole part or division preceding the pause. (See vol. i. pp. 162, 169.) This sense it had obtained so early as the time of Chaucer; who thus concludes the first part of his rhyme of Sir Thopas (writ in ridicule of the old ballad romances):—
"Lo! lordis mine, here is a fitt; If ye woll any more of it, To tell it woll I fonde."
The word fit indeed appears originally to have signified a poetic strain, verse, or poem; for in these senses it is used by the Anglo-Saxon writers. Thus K. Ælfred in his Boethius, having given a version of lib. 3, metr. 5, adds, Ða ꞅe pιꞅꝺom þa þaꞅ ꝼιꞇꞇe aꞅunȝen hæꝼꝺe, p. 65, i.e. "When wisdom had sung these (Fitts) verses." And in the proem to the same book, Fon on ꝼιꞇꞇe, "Put into (fitt) verse." So in Cedmon, p. 45. Feonꝺ on ꝼιꞇꞇe, seems to mean "composed a song," or "poem." The reader will trace this old Saxon phrase, in the application of the word fond, in the foregoing passage of Chaucer.
Spencer has used the word fit to denote "a strain of music;" see his poem, intitled, Collin Clout's come home again, where he says:—
"The Shepherd of the ocean [Sir Walt. Raleigh] Provoked me to play some pleasant fit. And when he heard the music which I made He found himself full greatlye pleas'd at it," &c.
It is also used in the old ballad of K. Estmere, vol. i. book 1, No. 6, v. 243.
From being applied to music, this word was easily transferred to dancing; thus in the old play of Lusty Juventus (described in preliminary note to book 2, No. 1 in this volume), Juventus says:
"By the masse I would fayne go daunce a fitte."
And from being used as a part or division in a ballad, poem, &c. it is applied by Bale to a section or chapter in a book (though I believe in a sense of ridicule or sarcasm), for thus he intitles two chapters of his English Votaryes, part 2nd, viz. fol. 49, "The fyrst fytt of Anselme with Kynge Wyllyam Rufus;" fol. 50, "An other Fytt of Anselme with kynge Wyllyam Rufus."
FOOTNOTES:
XI. FANCY AND DESIRE.
By the Earl of Oxford.
Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, was in high fame for his poetical talents in the reign of Elizabeth; perhaps it is no injury to his reputation that few of his compositions are preserved for the inspection of impartial posterity. To gratify curiosity, we have inserted a sonnet of his, which is quoted with great encomiums for its "excellencie and wit," in Puttenham's Arte of Eng. Poesie,[579] and found intire in the Garland of Good-will. A few more of his sonnets (distinguished by the initial letters E. O.), may be seen in the Paradise of Daintie Devises. One of these is intitled The Complaint of a Lover, wearing blacke and tawnie. The only lines in it worth notice are these:—
"A crowne of baies shall that man 'beare' Who triumphs over me; For black and tawnie will I weare, Which mourning colours be."
We find in Hall's Chronicle, that when Q. Catharine of Arragon dyed, Jan. 8, 1536, "Queen Anne (Bullen) ware yellowe for the mourning." And when this unfortunate princess lost her head, May 19, the same year, "on the ascencion day following, the kyng for mourning ware whyte." Fol. 227, 228.
Edward, who was the seventeenth earl of Oxford, of the family of Vere, succeeded his father in his title and honours in 1563, and died an aged man in 1604. See Mr. Walpole's Noble Authors. Athen. Oxon, &c.
[Walpole was in error when he stated that Lord Oxford died an aged man, for that nobleman was only about sixty at the time of his death. Sir Egerton Brydges points out in his edition of the Paradise of Dainty Devices (British Bibliographer, vol. iii.), that the earl could not have been born earlier than 1540 or 1541, because his elder half-sister Katherine, widow of Edward, Lord Windsor, died in January, 1599, aged 60. The chief events of his life are these. In 1585 he was the chief of those who embarked with the Earl of Leicester for the relief of the states of Holland and Zealand. In 1586 he sat as Lord Great Chamberlain of England on the trial of Mary, Queen of Scots. In 1588 he hired and fitted out ships at his own charge against the Spanish Armada. In 1589 he sat on the trial of Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel, and in 1601 on the trials of the Earls of Essex and Southampton. His private character was far from good, and his honour was tarnished by his dispute with Sir Philip Sidney. He used his first wife (a daughter of the great Burleigh) cruelly, in revenge for the statesman's treatment of his great friend, Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. In his early youth he travelled in Italy, and returned from that country a finished coxcomb, bringing home with him Italian dresses, perfumes, and embroidered gloves. He presented a pair of the latter to Queen Elizabeth, who was so pleased with them that she was drawn with them on her hands. The earl was buried at Hackney, on the 6th of July, 1604.