BOOK III.

As I walked of late by 'an' wood side,[747] To God for to meditate was my entent; Where under a hawthorne I suddenlye spyed[748] A silly poore creature ragged and rent, With bloody teares his face was besprent,[749] 5 His fleshe and his color consumed away,[749] And his garments they were all mire, mucke, and clay.[750] This made me muse, and much 'to' desire To know what kind of man hee shold bee; I stept to him straight, and did him require 10 His name and his secretts to shew unto mee. His head he cast up, and wooful was hee, My name, quoth he, is the cause of my care, And makes me scorned, and left here so bare. Then straightway he turn'd him, and pray'd 'me' sit downe,[751] 15 And I will, saithe he, declare my whole greefe; My name is called Conscience:—wheratt he did frowne, He pined to repeate it, and grinded his teethe, 'Thoughe now, silly wretche, I'm denyed all releef,'[752] 'Yet' while I was young, and tender of yeeres,[753] 20 I was entertained with kinges, and with peeres. There was none in the court that lived in such fame,[754] For with the kings councell 'I' sate in commission;[755] Dukes, earles, and barrons esteem'd of my name; And how that I liv'd there needs no repetition: 25 I was ever holden in honest condition, For howsoever the lawes went in Westminster-hall, When sentence was given, for me they wold call. No incomes at all the landlords wold take, But one pore peny, that was their fine; 30 And that they acknowledged to be for my sake. The poore wold doe nothing without councell mine: I ruled the world with the right line: For nothing was passed betweene foe and friend,[756] But Conscience was called to bee at 'the' end.[757] 35 Noe bargaines, nor merchandize merchants wold make[758] But I was called a wittenesse therto: No use for noe money, nor forfett wold take, But I wold controule them, if that they did soe: 'And' that makes me live now in great woe, 40 For then came in Pride, Sathan's disciple, That is now entertained with all kind of people.[759] He brought with him three, whose names 'thus they call'[760] That is Covetousnes, Lecherye, Usury, beside: They never prevail'd, till they had wrought my downefall; 45 Soe Pride was entertained, but Conscience decried,[761] And 'now ever since' abroad have I tryed[762] To have had entertainment with some one or other; But I am rejected, and scorned of my brother. Then went I to the Court the gallants to winn, 50 But the porter kept me out of the gate:[763] To Bartlemew Spittle[764] to pray for my sinne,[765] They bade me goe packe, it was fitt for my state;[766] Goe, goe, threed-bare Conscience, and seeke thee a mate. Good Lord, long preserve my king, prince, and queene, 55 With whom evermore I esteemed have been.[767] Then went I to London, where once I did 'dwell':[768] But they bade away with me, when they knew my name; For he will undoe us to bye and to sell! 59 They bade me goe packe me, and hye me for shame; They lought[769] at my raggs, and there had good game; This is old threed-bare Conscience, that dwelt with saint Peter: But they wold not admitt me to be a chimney-sweeper. Not one wold receive me, the Lord 'he' doth know;[770] I having but one poor pennye in my purse, 65 On an awle and some patches I did it bestow;[771] 'For' I thought better cobble shooes than doe worse.[772] Straight then all the coblers began for to curse,[773] And by statute wold prove me a rogue, and forlorne,[774] And whipp me out of towne to 'seeke' where I was borne.[775] 70 Then did I remember, and call to my minde, The Court of Conscience where once I did sit:[776] Not doubting but there I some favor shold find,[777] For my name and the place agreed soe fit; But there of my purpose I fayled a whit, 75 For 'thoughe' the judge us'd my name in everye 'commission,'[778] The lawyers with their quillets[779] wold get 'my' dismission.[780] Then Westminster-hall was noe place for me; Good lord! how the Lawyers began to assemble,[781] And fearfull they were, lest there I shold bee! 80 The silly poore clarkes began for to tremble; I showed them my cause, and did not dissemble; Soe they gave me some money my charges to beare,[782] But swore me on a booke I must never come there. Next the Merchants said, Counterfeite, get thee away,[783] 85 Dost thou remember how wee thee found? We banisht thee the country beyond the salt sea, And sett thee on shore in the New-found land; And there thou and wee most friendly shook hand,[784] And we were right glad when thou didst refuse us;[785] For when we wold reape profitt here thou woldst accuse us.[786] 91 Then had I noe way, but for to goe on[787] To Gentlemens houses of an ancyent name; Declaring my greeffes, and there I made moane, 'Telling' how their forefathers held me in fame:[788] 95 And at letting their farmes 'how always I came'.[789] They sayd, Fye upon thee! we may thee curse: 'Theire' leases continue, and we fare the worse.[790] And then I was forced a begging to goe To husbandmens houses, who greeved right sore, 100 And sware that their landlords had plagued them so[791] That they were not able to keepe open doore, Nor nothing had left to give to the poore:[792] Therefore to this wood I doe me repayre,[793] Where hepps and hawes, that is my best fare. 105 Yet within this same desert some comfort I have Of Mercy, of Pittye, and of Almes-deeds; Who have vowed to company me to my grave. Wee are 'all' put to silence, and live upon weeds,[794] 'And hence such cold house-keeping proceeds':[795] 110 Our banishment is its utter decay,[796] The which the riche glutton will answer one day. Why then, I said to him, me-thinks it were best To goe to the Clergie; for dailye they preach Eche man to love you above all the rest;[797] 115 Of Mercye, and Pittie, and Almes-'deeds', they teach. O, said he, noe matter of a pin what they preach,[798] For their wives and their children soe hange them upon,[799] That whosoever gives almes they will[800] give none.[801] Then laid he him down, and turned him away, 120 'And' prayd me to goe, and leave him to rest. I told him, I haplie might yet see the day[802] For him and his fellowes to live with the best.[803] First, said he, banish Pride, then all England were blest;[804] For then those wold love us, that now sell their land,[805] 125 And then good 'house-keeping wold revive' out of hand.[806]

God speed you, ancient father, And give you a good daye; What is the cause, I praye you So sadly here you staye? And that you keep such gazing 5 On this decayed place, The which, for superstition, Good princes down did raze?

Chill[807] tell thee, by my vazen[808], That zometimes che[809] have knowne 10 A vair and goodly abbey Stand here of bricke and stone; And many a holy vrier[810], As ich[811] may say to thee, Within these goodly cloysters Che did full often zee. 15

Then I must tell thee, father, In truthe and veritiè, A sorte of greater hypocrites Thou couldst not likely see; 20 Deceiving of the simple With false and feigned lies: But such an order truly Christ never did devise.

Ah! ah! che zmell thee now, man; 25 Che know well what thou art; A vellow of mean learning, Thee was not worth a vart: Vor when we had the old lawe, A merry world was then; 30 And every thing was plenty Among all zorts of men.

Thou givest me an answer, As did the Jewes sometimes Unto the prophet Jeremye, 35 When he accus'd their crimes; 'Twas merry, sayd the people, And joyfull in our rea'me, When we did offer spice-cakes Unto the queen of heav'n. 40

Chill tell thee what, good vellowe, Before the vriers went hence, A bushell of the best wheatè Was zold vor vourteen pence; And vorty egges a penny, 45 That were both good and newe; And this che zay my zelf have zeene, And yet ich am no Jewe.

Within the sacred bible We find it written plain, 50 The latter days should troublesome And dangerous be, certaine; That we should be self-lovers, And charity wax colde; Then 'tis not true religion 55 That makes thee grief to holde.

Chill tell thee my opinion plaine, And choul'd[812] that well ye knewe, Ich care not for the bible booke; Tis too big to be true. Our blessed ladyes psalter Zhall for my money goe; Zuch pretty prayers, as there bee[813], The bible cannot zhowe.

Nowe hast thou spoken trulye, 65 For in that book indeede No mention of our lady, Or Romish saint we read: For by the blessed Spirit That book indited was, 70 And not by simple persons, As was the foolish masse.

Cham[814] zure they were not voolishe That made the masse, che trowe; Why, man,'tis all in Latine, 75 And vools no Latine knowe. Were not our fathers wise men, And they did like it well; Who very much rejoyced To heare the zacring bell?[815] 80

But many kinges and prophets, As I may say to thee, Have wisht the light that you have, And could it never see: For what art thou the better 85 A Latin song to heare, And understandest nothing, That they sing in the quiere?

O hold thy peace, che pray thee, The noise was passing trim 90 To heare the vriers zinging, As we did enter in; And then to zee the rood-loft Zo bravely zet with zaints;— But now to zee them wandring 95 My heart with zorrow vaints.

The Lord did give commandment, No image thou shouldst make, Nor that unto idolatry You should your self betake: 100 The golden calf of Israel Moses did therefore spoile; And Baal's priests and temple Were brought to utter foile.

But our lady of Walsinghame 105 Was a pure and holy zaint, And many men in pilgrimage Did shew to her complaint. Yea with zweet Thomas Becket, And many other moe: 110 The holy maid of Kent[816] likewise Did many wonders zhowe.

Such saints are well agreeing To your profession sure; And to the men that made them 115 So precious and so pure; The one for being a traytoure, Met an untimely death; The other eke for treason Did end her hateful breath. 120

Yea, yea, it is no matter, Dispraise them how you wille: But zure they did much goodnesse; Would they were with us stille! We had our holy water, 125 And holy bread likewise, And many holy reliques We zaw before our eyes.

And all this while they fed you With vain and empty showe, 130 Which never Christ commanded, As learned doctors knowe: Search then the holy scriptures, And thou shalt plainly see That headlong to damnation 135 They alway trained thee.

If it be true, good vellowe, As thou dost zay to mee, Unto my heavenly fader Alone then will I flee: 140 Believing in the Gospel, And passion of his zon, And with the zubtil papistes Ich have for ever done.

When as in faire Jerusalem Our Saviour Christ did live, And for the sins of all the worlde His own deare life did give; The wicked Jewes with scoffes and scornes 5 Did dailye him molest, That never till he left his life, Our Saviour could not rest. When they had crown'd his head with thornes, And scourg'd him to disgrace, 10 In scornfull sort they led him forthe Unto his dying place; Where thousand thousands in the streete Beheld him passe along, Yet not one gentle heart was there, 15 That pityed this his wrong. Both old and young reviled him, As in the streete he wente, And nought he found but churlish tauntes, By every ones consente: 20 His owne deare crosse he bore himselfe, A burthen far too great, Which made him in the street to fainte, With blood and water sweat. Being weary thus, he sought for rest, 25 To ease his burthened soule, Upon a stone; the which a wretch Did churlishly controule; And sayd, Awaye, thou king of Jewes, Thou shalt not rest thee here; 30 Pass on; thy execution place Thou seest nowe draweth neare. And thereupon he thrust him thence; At which our Saviour sayd, I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke, 35 And have no journey stayed. With that this cursed shoemaker, For offering Christ this wrong, Left wife and children, house and all, And went from thence along. 40 Where after he had seene the bloude Of Jesus Christ thus shed, And to the crosse his bodye nail'd, Awaye with speed he fled Without returning backe againe 45 Unto his dwelling place, And wandred up and downe the worlde, A runnagate most base. No resting could he finde at all, No ease, nor hearts content; 50 No house, nor home, nor biding place: But wandring forth he went From towne to towne in foreigne landes, With grieved conscience still, Repenting for the heinous guilt 55 Of his fore-passed ill. Thus after some fewe ages past In wandring up and downe; He much again desired to see Jerusalems renowne, 60 But finding it all quite destroyd, He wandred thence with woe, Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke, To verifie and showe. "I'll rest, sayd hee, but thou shalt walke," 65 So doth this wandring Jew From place to place, but cannot rest For seeing countries newe; Declaring still the power of him, Whereas he comes or goes, 70 And of all things done in the east, Since Christ his death, he showes. The world he hath still compast round And seene those nations strange, That hearing of the name of Christ, 75 Their idol gods doe change: To whom he hath told wondrous thinges Of time forepast, and gone, And to the princes of the worlde Declares his cause of moane: 80 Desiring still to be dissolv'd, And yeild his mortal breath; But, if the Lord hath thus decreed, He shall not yet see death. For neither lookes he old nor young, 85 But as he did those times, When Christ did suffer on the crosse For mortall sinners crimes. He hath past through many a foreigne place, Arabia, Egypt, Africa, 90 Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace, And throughout all Hungaria. Where Paul and Peter preached Christ, Those blest apostles deare; There he hath told our Saviours wordes, 95 In countries far, and neare. And lately in Bohemia, With many a German towne; And now in Flanders, as tis thought, He wandreth up and downe: 100 Where learned men with him conferre Of those his lingering dayes, And wonder much to heare him tell His journeyes, and his wayes. If people give this Jew an almes, 105 The most that he will take Is not above a groat a time: Which he, for Jesus' sake, Will kindlye give unto the poore, And thereof make no spare, 110 Affirming still that Jesus Christ Of him hath dailye care. He ne'er was seene to laugh nor smile, But weepe and make great moane; Lamenting still his miseries, 115 And dayes forepast and gone: If he heare any one blaspheme, Or take God's name in vaine, He telles them that they crucifie Their Saviour Christe againe. 120 If you had seene his death, saith he, As these mine eyes have done, Ten thousand thousand times would yee His torments think upon: And suffer for his sake all paine 125 Of torments, and all woes. These are his wordes and eke his life Whereas he comes or goes.

"Go, echo of the mind, a careless truth protest; Make answer that rude Rawly no stomach can digest."

Goe, soule, the bodies guest, Upon a thankelesse arrant; Feare not to touche the best, The truth shall be thy warrant: Goe, since I needs must dye, 5 And give the world the lye. Goe tell the court, it glowes And shines like rotten wood; Goe tell the church it showes What's good, and doth no good: 10 If church and court reply, Then give them both the lye. Tell potentates they live Acting by others actions; Not lov'd unlesse they give, 15 Not strong but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lye. Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, 20 Their purpose is ambition, Their practise onely hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye. Tell them that brave it most, 25 They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost Seek nothing but commending; And if they make reply, Spare not to give the lye. 30 Tell zeale, it lacks devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time, it is but motion; Tell flesh, it is but dust; And wish them not reply, 35 For thou must give the lye. Tell age, it daily wasteth; Tell honour, how it alters; Tell beauty, how she blasteth; Tell favour, how she falters; 40 And as they shall reply, Give each of them the lye. Tell wit, how much it wrangles In tickle points of nicenesse; Tell wisedome, she entangles 45 Herselfe in over-wisenesse; And if they do reply, Straight give them both the lye. Tell physicke of her boldnesse; Tell skill, it is pretension; 50 Tell charity of coldness; Tell law, it is contention; And as they yield reply, So give them still the lye. Tell fortune of her blindnesse; 55 Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindnesse; Tell justice of delay: And if they dare reply, Then give them all the lye. 60 Tell arts, they have no soundnesse, But vary by esteeming; Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse, And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schooles reply, 65 Give arts and schooles the lye. Tell faith, it's fled the citie; Tell how the countrey erreth; Tell, manhood shakes off pitie; Tell, vertue least preferreth: 70 And, if they doe reply, Spare not to give the lye. So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lye 75 Deserves no less than stabbing, Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the soule can kill.

God gives not kings the stile of Gods in vaine, For on his throne his scepter do they swey: And as their subjects ought them to obey, So kings should feare and serve their God againe. If then ye would enjoy a happie reigne, Observe the statutes of our heavenly king; And from his law make all your laws to spring; Since his lieutenant here ye should remaine. Rewarde the just, be stedfast, true and plaine; Represse the proud, maintayning aye the right; Walke always so, as ever in HIS sight, Who guardes the godly, plaguing the prophane. And so ye shall in princely vertues shine, Resembling right your mightie king divine.

How cruelly these catives do conspire? What loathsome love breeds such a baleful band Betwixt the cankred king of Creta land,[820] That melancholy old and angry sire, And him, who wont to quench debate and ire 5 Among the Romans, when his ports were clos'd?[821] But now his double face is still dispos'd, With Saturn's help, to freeze us at the fire. The earth ore-covered with a sheet of snow, Refuses food to fowl, to bird, and beast: 10 The chilling cold lets every thing to grow, And surfeits cattle with a starving feast. Curs'd be that love and mought[822] continue short, Which kills all creatures, and doth spoil our sport.

"Unlearned men hard matters out can find, When learned bishops princes eyes do blind."

"In Popish times, when bishops proud In England did bear sway, Their lordships did like princes live, And kept all at obey."

An ancient story Ile tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called king John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right. And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, 5 Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne. An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; 10 And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about. How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, 15 I feare thou work'st treason against my crown. My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing, but what is my owne; And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere,[824] For spending of my owne true-gotten geere. 20 Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe. And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead, 25 With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole worlde about. 30 And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think. O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cánnot answer your grace as yet: But if you will give me but three weekes space, 35 Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace. Now three weeks space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee. 40 Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, 45 And he mett his shepheard a going to fold: How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; What newes do you bring us from good king John? "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give; That I have but three days more to live: 50 For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodìe. The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, Among all his liege men so noble of birth, 55 To within one penny of what he is worth. The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke." 60 Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learn a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel. Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, 65 I am like your lordship, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne. "Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; 70 With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope." Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say, Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, 75 Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. And first, when thou seest me here in this stead. With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth. 80 "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told; And twenty nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel[825], 85 I did not think I had been worth so littel! —Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about. "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; 90 And then your grace need not make any doubt, But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, I did not think, it could be gone so soone! —Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke. 96 "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbùry; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, 101 Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place! "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade." Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee, 105 For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good king John.

Off an ancient story Ile tell you anon, of a notable prince that was called King Iohn, in England was borne, with maine and with might hee did much wrong, and mainteined litle right. 4 this noble prince was vexed in veretye, for he was angry with the bishopp of canterbury ffor his house-keeping and his good cheere, thé rode post for him, as you shall heare; 8 they rode post for him very hastilye; the King sayd the bishopp kept a better house then hee; a 100 men euen, as I say, the Bishopp kept in his house euerye day, 12 and 50 gold chaines without any doubt, in veluett coates waited the Bishopp about. the Bishopp, he came to the court anon before his prince that was called King Iohn. 16 as soone as the Bishopp the King did see, "O," quoth the King, "Bishopp, thou art welcome to mee! there is noe man soe welcome to towne as thou that workes treason against my crowne." 20 "My leege," quoth the Bishopp, "I wold it were knowne; I spend, your grace, nothing but that thats my owne; I trust your grace will doe me noe deare for spending my owne trew gotten geere." 24 "Yes," quoth the King, "Bishopp, thou must needs dye: eccept thou can answere mee questions 3, thy head shalbe smitten quite from thy bodye, and all thy liuing remayne vnto mee. 28 "first," quoth the King, "tell me in this steade, with this crowne of gold heere vpon my head, amongst my Nobilitye with Ioy and much Mirth, lett me know within one pennye what I am worth: 32 Secondlye, tell me without any dowbt how soone I may goe the whole world about: and thirdly, tell mee or euer I stinte, what is the thing, Bishopp, that I doe thinke. 36 20 dayes pardon thoust haue trulye, and come againe and answere mee." the Bishopp bade the King 'god night' att a word. he rode betwixt Cambridge and Oxenford, 40 but neuer a Doctor there was soe wise cold shew him these questions or enterprise; wherewith the Bishopp was nothing gladd, but in his hart was heauy and sadd, 44 and hyed him home to a house in the countrye To ease some part of his Melanchollye. hís halfe brother dwelt there, was feirce & fell, noe better but a shepard to the Bishoppe him-sell; 48 the shepard came to the Bishopp anon, saying, "my Lord, you are welcome home! what ayles you," quoth the shepard, "that you are soe sadd, and had wonte to haue beene soe merry & gladd?" 52 "Nothing," quoth the Bishopp, "I ayle att this time, will not thee availe to know, Brother mine." "Brother," quoth the Shepeard, "you haue heard itt, that a ffoole may teach a wisemane witt; 56 say me therfore what-soeuer you will, and if I doe you noe good, Ile doe you noe ill." Quoth the Bishop: "I have beene att thy court anon, before my prince is called King Iohn, 60 and there he hath charged mee against his crowne with traitorye; if I cannot answer his misterye, 3 questions hee hath propounded to mee, 64 he will haue my Land soe faire and free, and alsoe the head from my bodye. the first question was, 'to tell him in that stead with the crowne of gold vpon his head, 68 amongst his nobilitye with Ioy & much mirth, to lett him know within one penye what hee is worth;' and secondlye 'to tell him with-out any doubt how soone he may goe the whole world about;' 72 and thirdlye, 'to tell him, or ere I stint, what is the thing that he does thinke.'" "Brother," quoth the shepard, "you are a man of Learninge; what neede you stand in doubt of soe small a thinge? 76 lend me," quoth the shepard, "your ministers apparrell, Ile ryde to the court and answere your quarrell; lend me your serving men, say me not nay; with all your best horsses that ryd on the way, 80 Ile to the court, this matter to stay; Ile speake with King Iohn & heare what heele say." the Bishopp with speed prepared then to sett forth the shepard with horsse and man; 84 the shepard was liuely with-out any doubt; I wott a royall companye came to the court. the shepard hee came to the court anon before (his) prince that was called King Iohn. 88 as soone as the king the shepard did see, "O," quoth the king, "Bishopp, thou art welcome to me!" the shepard was soe like the Bishopp his brother, the King cold not know the one from the other. 92 Quoth the King, "Bishopp, thou art welcome to me if thou can answer me my questions 3!" said the shepeard, "if it please your grace, show mee what the first questιon was." 96 "first" quoth the king, "tell mee in this stead with the crowne of gold vpon my head, amongst my nobilitye with Ioy and much mirth, within one pennye what I am worth." 100 Quoth the shepard, "to make your grace noe offence, I thinke you are worth 29 pence; for our Lord Iesus, that bought vs all, for 30 pence was sold into thrall 104 amongst the cursed Iewes, as I to you doe showe; but I know christ was one penye better then you." then the King laught, and swore by St Andrew he was not thought to bee of such a small value. 108 "Secondlye, tell mee with-out any doubt how soone I may goe the world round about," saies the shepard, "it is noe time with your grace to scorne; but rise betime with the sun in the morne, 112 and follow his course till his vprising, and then you may know with-out any Leasing— and this your grace shall proue the same— you are come to the same place from whence you came; 116 24 houres, with-out any doubt, your grace may the world goe round about; the world round about, euen as I doe say, if with the sun you can goe the next way." 120 "and thirdlye tell me or euer I stint, what is the thing, Bishoppe, that I doe thinke." "that shall I doe," quoth the shepeard, "for veretye you thinke I am the Bishopp of Canterburye," 124 "why? art not thou? the truth tell to me; for I doe thinke soe," quoth the king, "by St. Marye." "not soe," quoth the shepeard; "the truth shalbe knowne, I am his poore shepeard; my brother is att home." 128 "why," quoth the King, "if itt soe bee, Ile make thee Bishopp here to mee." "Noe Sir" quoth the shepard, "I pray you be still, for Ile not bee Bishop but against my will; 132 for I am not fitt for any such deede, for I can neither write nor reede." "why then," quoth the king, "Ile giue thee cleere a patten of 300 pound a yeere; 136 that I will giue thee franke and free; take thee that, shepard, for coming to me: free pardon Ile giue," the kings grace said, "to saue the Bishopp, his land and his head; 140 with him nor thee Ile be nothing wrath; here is the pardon for him and thee both." then the shepard he had noe more to say, but tooke the pardon and rode his way. 144 when he came to the Bishopps place, the Bishopp asket anon how all things was: "Brother," quoth the Shepard, "I haue well sped, for I haue saued both your Land & your head; 148 the King with you is nothing wrath, for heere is the pardon for you and mee both." then the Bishopes hart was of a merry cheere, "brother, thy paines Ile quitt them cleare, 152 for I will giue thee a patent to thee & to thine of 50^li. a yeere land good and fine." "I will to thee noe longer croche nor creepe, nor Ile serue thee noe more to keepe thy sheepe." 156 whereeuer wist you shepard before, that had in his head witt such store to pleasure a Bishopp in such a like case, to answer 3 questions to the Kings grace? 160 whereeuer wist you shepard gett cleare 350^li. pound a yeere? I neuer hard of his fellow before, nor I neuer shall, now I need to say noe more: 164 I neuer knew shepeard that gott such a liuinge But David the shepeard that was a King.

"You rubies, that do gems adorn, And sapphires with your azure hue Like to the skies, or blushing morn, How pale's your brightness in our view When diamonds are mixed with you. "The rose, the violet, all the spring Unto her breath, for sweetness run; The diamond's dark'ned in the ring If she appear, the moon's undone, As in the presence of the Sun."]

You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfie our eies More by your number, than your light; You common people of the skies, What are you when the Moon shall rise? 5 Ye violets that first appeare, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the yeare, As if the Spring were all your own; What are you when the Rose is blown? 10 Ye curious chaunters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature's layes, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents: what's your praise, When Philomell her voyce shall raise? 15 So when my mistris shal be seene In sweetnesse of her looks and minde; By virtue first, then choyce a queen; Tell me, if she was not design'd Th' eclypse and glory of her kind? 20

An old song made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier. With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks. With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks: Like an old courtier, &c. With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, And an old frize coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose, And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, &c. With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good chear enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb, Like an old courtier, &c. With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; Like an old courtier, &c. But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd; Like a young courtier of the king's, And the king's young courtier. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land, And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care, Who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other womens hair; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors old manors are sold; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, Among the young courtiers of the king, Or the king's young courtiers.

"But now there is peace, he's return'd to increase His money, which lately he spent-a, But his lost honour must lye still in the dust; At Barwick away it went-a."

"As it fell on a holiday And upon a holytide-a John Dory bought him an ambling nag To Paris for to ride-a."

"I tell thee, Jack, thou gav'st the king So rare a present, that nothing Could welcomer have been; A hundred horse! beshrew my heart, It was a brave heroic part, The like will scarce be seen. "For ev'ry horse shall have on's back A man as valiant as Sir Jack, Although not half so witty: Yet I did hear the other day Two tailors made seven run away Good faith, the more's the pity."

Sir John he got him an ambling nag, To Scotland for to ride-a, With a hundred horse more, all his own he swore, To guard him on every side-a. No Errant-knight ever went to fight 5 With halfe so gay a bravada, Had you seen but his look, you'ld have sworn on a book, Hee'ld have conquer'd a whole armada. The ladies ran all to the windows to see So gallant and warlike a sight-a, 10 And as he pass'd by, they said with a sigh, Sir John, why will you go fight-a? But he, like a cruel knight, spurr'd on; His heart would not relent-a, For, till he came there, what had he to fear? 15 Or why should he repent-a? The king (God bless him!) had singular hopes Of him and all his troop-a: The borderers they, as they met him on the way, For joy did hollow, and whoop-a. 20 None lik'd him so well, as his own colonell, Who took him for John de Wert-a;[826] But when there were shows of gunning and blows, My gallant was nothing so pert-a. For when the Scots army came within sight, 25 And all prepared to fight-a, He ran to his tent, they ask'd what he meant, He swore he must needs goe sh*te-a. The colonell sent for him back agen, To quarter him in the van-a, 30 But Sir John did swear, he would not come there, To be kill'd the very first man-a. To cure his fear, he was sent to the reare, Some ten miles back, and more-a; Where Sir John did play at trip and away, 35 And ne'er saw the enemy more-a.

When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lye tangled in her haire, 5 And fetter'd with her eye, The birds that wanton in the aire, Know no such libertye.[827] When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames,[828] 10 Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,[829] When healths and draughts goe free,[830] Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, 15 Know no such libertìe.[827] When, linnet-like, confined I With shriller note shall sing The mercye, sweetness, majestye,[831] And glories of my king;[832] 20 When I shall voyce aloud how good He is, how great should be, Th' enlarged windes, that curle the flood,[833] Know no such libertìe.[827] Stone walls doe not a prison make, 25 Nor iron barres a cage, Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take[834] That for an hermitage:[835] If I have freedom in my love, And in my soule am free, 30 Angels alone, that soare above,[836] Enjoy such libertìe.[837]

Undone, undone the lawyers are, They wander about the towne, Nor can find the way to Westminster, Now Charing-cross is downe: At the end of the Strand, they make a stand, 5 Swearing they are at a loss, And chaffing say, that's not the way, They must go by Charing-cross. The parliament to vote it down Conceived it very fitting, 10 For fear it should fall, and kill them all, In the house, as they were sitting. They were told god-wot, it had a plot, Which made them so hard-hearted, To give command, it should not stand, 15 But be taken down and carted. Men talk of plots, this might have been worse For any thing I know, Than that Tomkins, and Chaloner, Were hang'd for long agoe. 20 Our parliament did that prevent, And wisely them defended, For plots they will discover still, Before they were intended. But neither man, woman, nor child, 25 Will say, I'm confident, They ever heard it speak one word Against the parliament. An informer swore, it letters bore, Or else it had been freed; 30 I'll take, in troth, my Bible oath, It could neither write, nor read. The committee said, that verily To popery it was bent; For ought I know, it might be so, 35 For to church it never went. What with excise, and such device, The kingdom doth begin To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross, Without doors nor within. 40 Methinks the common-council shou'd Of it have taken pity, 'Cause, good old cross, it always stood So firmly to the city. Since crosses you so much disdain, 45 Faith, if I were as you, For fear the king should rule again, I'd pull down Tiburn too.

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas blow; Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivility doth show, That innocence is tempest proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; 5 Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me: Whilst a good conscience is my bail, And innocence my liberty: 10 Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. I, whilst I wisht to be retir'd, Into this private room was turn'd; As if their wisdoms had conspir'd 15 The salamander should be burn'd; Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish. The cynick loves his poverty; The pelican her wilderness; 20 And 'tis the Indian's pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus: Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see Make torments easie to their apathy. These manacles upon my arm 25 I, as my mistress' favours, wear; And for to keep my ancles warm, I have some iron shackles there: These walls are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. 30 I'm in the cabinet lockt up, Like some high-prized margarite,[838] Or, like the great mogul or pope, Am cloyster'd up from publick sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, 35 And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. Here sin for want of food must starve, Where tempting objects are not seen; And these strong walls do only serve To keep vice out, and keep me in: 40 Malice of late's grown charitable sure, I'm not committed, but am kept secure. So he that struck at Jason's life,[839] Thinking t'have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife 45 Did only wound him to a cure: Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th' event. When once my prince affliction hath, Prosperity doth treason seem; 50 And to make smooth so rough a path, I can learn patience from him: Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart, When kings want ease subjects must bear a part. What though I cannot see my king 55 Neither in person or in coin; Yet contemplation is a thing That renders what I have not, mine; My king from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heart? 60 Have you not seen the nightingale, A prisoner like, coopt in a cage, How doth she chaunt her wonted tale In that her narrow hermitage? Even then her charming melody doth prove, 65 That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird, whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; But though they do my corps confine, Yet maugre hate, my sould is free: 70 And though immur'd yet can I chirp, and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. My soul is free, as ambient air, Although my baser part's immew'd, Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair 75 T' accompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body binde, My king alone can captivate my minde.

Great monarch of the world, from whose power springs The potency and power of kings, Record the royal woe my suffering sings; And teach my tongue, that ever did confine Its faculties in truth's seraphick line, 5 To track the treasons of thy foes and mine. Nature and law, by thy divine decree, (The only root of righteous royaltie) With this dim diadem invested me: With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe, 10 The holy unction, and the royal globe: Yet am I levell'd with the life of Job. The fiercest furies, that do daily tread Upon my grief, my grey discrowned head, Are those that owe my bounty for their bread. 15 They raise a war, and christen it THE CAUSE, While sacrilegious hands have best applause, Plunder and murder are the kingdom's laws; Tyranny bears the title of taxation, Revenge and robbery are reformation, 20 Oppression gains the name of sequestration. My loyal subjects, who in this bad season Attend me (by the law of God and reason), They dare impeach, and punish for high treason. Next at the clergy do their furies frown, 25 Pious episcopacy must go down, They will destroy the crosier and the crown. Churchmen are chain'd, and schismaticks are freed, Mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed, The crown is crucified with the creed. 30 The church of England doth all factions foster, The pulpit is usurpt by each impostor, Extempore excludes the Paternoster. The Presbyter, and Independent seed Springs with broad blades. To make religion bleed Herod and Pontius Pilate are agreed. 36 The corner stone's misplac'd by every pavier: With such a bloody method and behaviour Their ancestors did crucifie our Saviour. My royal consort, from whose fruitful womb 40 So many princes legally have come, Is forc'd in pilgrimage to seek a tomb. Great Britain's heir is forced into France, Whilst on his father's head his foes advance: Poor child! he weeps out his inheritance. 45 With my own power my majesty they wound, In the king's name the king himself's uncrown'd: So doth the dust destroy the diamond. With propositions daily they enchant My people's ears, such as do reason daunt, 50 And the Almighty will not let me grant. They promise to erect my royal stem, To make me great, t' advance my diadem, If I will first fall down, and worship them! But for refusal they devour my thrones, 55 Distress my children, and destroy my bones; I fear they'll force me to make bread of stones. My life they prize at such a slender rate, That in my absence they draw bills of hate, To prove the king a traytor to the state. 60 Felons obtain more privilege than I, They are allow'd to answer ere they die; 'Tis death for me to ask the reason, why. But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to 65 Such, as thou know'st do not know what they do. For since they from their lord are so disjointed, As to contemn those edicts he appointed, How can they prize the power of his anointed? Augment my patience, nullifie my hate, 70 Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate, Yet, though we perish, BLESS THIS CHURCH and STATE.

"Says old Sir Symon the King, Says old Sir Symon the King, With his threadbare clothes And his malmsey nose Sing hey ding, ding a ding, ding."]

Rebellion hath broken up house, And hath left me old lumber to sell; Come hither, and take your choice, I'll promise to use you well: Will you buy the old speaker's chair? 5 Which was warm and easie to sit in, And oft hath been clean'd I declare, When as it was fouler than fitting. Says old Simon the king, &c. Will you buy any bacon-flitches, 10 The fattest, that ever were spent? They're the sides of the old committees, Fed up in the long parliament. Here's a pair of bellows, and tongs, And for a small matter I'll sell ye 'um; 15 They are made of the presbyters lungs, To blow up the coals of rebellion. Says old Simon, &c. I had thought to have given them once To some black-smith for his forge; 20 But now I have considered on't, They are consecrate to the church: So I'll give them unto some quire, They will make the big organs roar, And the little pipes to squeeke higher, 25 Than ever they could before. Says old Simon, &c. Here's a couple of stools for sale, One's square, and t'other is round; Betwixt them both the tail 30 Of the Rump fell down to the ground. Will you buy the states council-table, Which was made of the good wain Scot? The frame was a tottering Babel To uphold the Independent plot, 35 Says old Simon, &c. Here's the beesom of Reformation, Which should have made clean the floor, But it swept the wealth out of the nation, And left us dirt good store. 40 Will you buy the states spinning-wheel, Which spun for the ropers trade? But better it had stood still, For now it has spun a fair thread. Says old Simon, &c. 45 Here's a glyster-pipe well try'd, Which was made of a butcher's stump,[840] And has been safely apply'd, To cure the colds of the rump. Here's a lump of Pilgrims-Salve, 50 Which once was a justice of peace, Who Noll and the Devil did serve; But now it is come to this. Says old Simon, &c. Here's a roll of the states tobacco, 55 If any good fellow will take it; No Virginia had e'er such a smack-o, And I'll tell you how they did make it: 'Tis th' Engagement, and Covenant cookt Up with the Abjuration oath; 60 And many of them, that have took't, Complain it was foul in the mouth. Says old Simon, &c. Yet the ashes may happily serve To cure the scab of the nation, 65 Whene'er 't has an itch to swerve To Rebellion by innovation. A Lanthorn here is to be bought, The like was scarce ever gotten, For many plots it has found out 70 Before they ever were thought on. Says old Simon, &c. Will you buy the RUMP'S great saddle, With which it jocky'd the nation? And here is the bitt, and the bridle, 75 And curb of Dissimulation: And here's the trunk-hose of the RUMP, And their fair dissembling cloak, And a Presbyterian jump, With an Independent smock. 80 Says old Simon, &c. Will you buy a Conscience oft turn'd, Which serv'd the high-court of justice, And stretch'd until England it mourn'd: But Hell will buy that if the worst is. 85 Here's Joan Cromwell's kitching-stuff tub,[841] Wherein is the fat of the Rumpers, With which old Noll's horns she did rub, When he was got drunk with false bumpers. Says old Simon, &c. 90 Here's the purse of the public faith; Here's the model of the Sequestration, When the old wives upon their good troth, Lent thimbles to ruine the nation.[842] Here's Dick Cromwell's Protectorship, 95 And here are Lambert's commissions, And here is Hugh Peters his scrip Cramm'd with the tumultuous Petitions Says old Simon, &c. And here are old Noll's brewing vessels,[843] 100 And here are his dray, and his slings; Here are Hewson's awl, and his bristles;[843] With diverse other odd things: And what is the price doth belong To all these matters before ye? 105 I'll sell them all for an old song, And so I do end my story. Says old Simon, &c.

"Yonder comes a courteous knight,"

There was a knight was drunk with wine, A riding along the way, sir; And there he met with a lady fine, Among the cocks of hay, sir. Shall you and I, O lady faire, 5 Among the grass lye down-a: And I will have a special care Of rumpling of your gowne-a. Upon the grass there is a dewe, Will spoil my damask gowne, sir: 10 My gowne, and kirtle they are newe, And cost me many a crowne, sir. I have a cloak of scarlet red, Upon the ground I'll throwe it; Then, lady faire, come lay thy head; 15 We'll play, and none shall knowe it. O yonder stands my steed so free Among the cocks of hay, sir; And if the pinner[844] should chance to see, He'll take my steed away, sir. 20 Upon my finger I have a ring, Is made of finest gold-a; And, lady, it thy steed shall bring Out of the pinner's fold-a. O go with me to my father's hall; 25 Fair chambers there are three, sir: And you shall have the best of all, And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir. He mounted himself on his steed so tall, And her on her dapple gray, sir: 30 And there they rode to her father's hall, Fast pricking along the way, sir. To her father's hall they arrived strait; 'Twas moated round about-a; She slipped herself within the gate, 35 And lockt the knight without-a. Here is a silver penny to spend, And take it for your pain, sir; And two of my father's men I'll send To wait on you back again, sir. 40 He from his scabbard drew his brand, And wiped it upon his sleeve-a: And cursed, he said, be every man, That will a maid believe-a! She drew a bodkin from her haire, 45 And whip'd it upon her gown-a; And curs'd be every maiden faire, That will with men lye down-a! A herb there is, that lowly grows, And some do call it rue, sir: 50 The smallest dunghill cock that crows, Would make a capon of you, sir. A flower there is, that shineth bright, Some call it mary gold-a; He that wold not when he might, 55 He shall not when he wold-a. The knight was riding another day, With cloak and hat and feather: He met again with that lady gay, Who was angling in the river. 60 Now, lady faire, I've met with you, You shall no more escape me; Remember, how not long agoe You falsely did intrap me. The lady blushed scarlet red, 65 And trembled at the stranger: How shall I guard my maidenhead From this approaching danger? He from his saddle down did light, In all his riche attyer; 70 And cryed, As I am a noble knight, I do thy charms admyer. He took the lady by the hand, Who seemingly consented; And would no more disputing stand: 75 She had a plot invented. Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray, Methinks I now discover A riding upon his dapple gray, My former constant lover. 80 On tip-toe peering stood the knight, Fast by the rivers brink-a; The lady pusht with all her might: Sir knight, now swim or sink-a. O'er head and ears he plunged in, 85 The bottom faire he sounded; Then rising up, he cried amain, Help, helpe, or else I'm drownded! Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu! You see what comes of fooling: 90 That is the fittest place for you; Your courage wanted cooling. Ere many days, in her fathers park, Just at the close of eve-a, Again she met with her angry sparke; 95 Which made this lady grieve-a. False lady, here thou'rt in my powre, And no one now can hear thee: And thou shalt sorely rue the hour, That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me. 100 I pray, sir knight, be not so warm With a young silly maid-a: I vow and swear I thought no harm, 'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a. A gentle jest, in soothe! he cry'd, 105 To tumble me in and leave me: What if I had in the river dy'd?—— That fetch will not deceive me. Once more I'll pardon thee this day, Tho' injur'd out of measure; 110 But then prepare without delay To yield thee to my pleasure. Well then, if I must grant your suit, Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir Let me pull off both spur and boot, 115 Or else you cannot stir, sir. He set him down upon the grass, And begg'd her kind assistance: Now, smiling thought this lovely lass, I'll make you keep your distance. 120 Then pulling off his boots half-way; Sir knight, now I'm your betters: You shall not make of me your prey; Sit there like a knave in fetters. The knight when she had served soe, 125 He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled: For he could neither stand nor goe, But like a cripple tumbled. Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten, Yet do not move nor stir, sir: 130 I'll send you my father's serving men, To pull off your boots and spurs, sir. This merry jest you must excuse, You are but a stingless nettle: You'd never have stood for boots or shoes, 135 Had you been a man of mettle. All night in grievous rage he lay, Rolling upon the plain-a; Next morning a shepherd past that way, Who set him right again-a. 140 Then mounting upon his steed so tall, By hill and dale he swore-a: I'll ride at once to her father's hall; She shall escape no more-a. I'll take her father by the beard, 145 I'll challenge all her kindred; Each dastard soul shall stand affeard; My wrath shall no more be hindred, He rode unto her father's house, Which every side was moated: 150 The lady heard his furious vows, And all his vengeance noted. Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage, Once more I will endeavour: This water shall your fury 'swage, 155 Or else it shall burn for ever. Then faining penitence and feare, She did invite a parley: Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare, Henceforth I'll love you dearly. 160 My father he is now from home, And I am all alone, sir: Therefore a-cross the water come; And I am all your own, sir. False maid, thou canst no more deceive; 165 I scorn the treacherous bait-a: If thou would'st have me thee believe, Now open me the gate-a. The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd, My father he has the keys, sir. 170 But I have for my love prepar'd A shorter way and easier. Over the moate I've laid a plank Full seventeen feet in measure: Then step a-cross to the other bank, 175 And there we'll take our pleasure. These words she had no sooner spoke, But strait he came tripping over: The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke; And sous'd the unhappy lover. 180

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prethee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prethee, why so pale? 5 Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prethee why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing doe't? Prethee why so mute? 10 Quit, quit for shame; this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her. The devil take her! 15

Forth from my sad and darksome cell, Or from the deepe abysse of hell,[845] Mad Tom is come into the world againe To see if he can cure his distempered braine.[846] Feares and cares oppresse my soule;[847] 5 Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle! Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd[848] To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd. Through the world I wander night and day[849] To seeke my straggling senses, 10 In an angrye moode I mett old Time,[850] With his pentarchye of tenses:[851] When me he spyed,[852] Away he hyed,[853] For time will stay for no man:[854] 15 In vaine with cryes I rent the skyes,[855] For pity is not common.[856] Cold and comfortless I lye: Helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye! 20 Harke! I heare Apollo's teame, The carman 'gins to whistle; Chast Diana bends her bowe, The boare begins to bristle. Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackles, 25 To knocke off my troublesome shackles;[857] Bid Charles make ready his waine To fetch me my senses againe.[858] Last night I heard the dog-star bark; Mars met Venus in the darke; 30 Limping Vulcan het[859] an iron barr,[860] And furiouslye made at the god of war:[861] Mars with his weapon laid about,[862] But Vulcan's temples had the gout, For his broad horns did so hang in his light,[863] 35 He could not see to aim his blowes aright:[864] Mercurye the nimble post of heaven, Stood still to see the quarrell;[865] Gorrel-bellyed[866] Bacchus, gyant-like, Bestryd a strong-beere barrell. 40 To mee he dranke, I did him thanke, But I could get no cyder; He dranke whole butts Till he burst his gutts, 45 But mine were ne'er the wyder. Poore naked Tom is very drye: A little drinke for charitye! Harke, I hear Acteon's horne! The huntsmen whoop and hallowe: 50 Ringwood, Royster, Bowman, Jowler, All the chase do followe. The man in the moone drinkes clarret, Eates powder'd beef, turnip, and carret, But a cup of old Malaga sack 55 Will fire the bushe at his backe.