BOOK II.

"Men speken of romances of price, Of Horne childe and Ippotis, Of Bevis, and sir Guy," &c.—R. of Thop.)

"——A messenger came to the king. Syr king, he sayd, lysten me now, For bad tydinges I bring you, In Northumberlande there is no man, But that they be slayne everychone: For there dare no man route, By twenty myle rounde aboute, For doubt of a fowle dragon, That sleath men and beastes downe. He is blacke as any cole, Rugged as a rough fole; His bodye from the navill upwarde No man may it pierce it is so harde; His neck is great as any summere; He renneth as swifte as any distrere; Pawes he hath as a lyon: All that he toucheth he sleath dead downe. Great winges he hath to flight, That is no man that bare him might. There may no man fight him agayne, But that he sleath him certayne: For a fowler beast then is he, Ywis of none never heard ye."

"May all the ballads be call'd in and dye Which sing the warrs of Colebrand and Sir Guy."

Was ever knight for ladyes sake Soe tost in love, as I sir Guy For Phelis fayre, that lady bright As ever man beheld with eye? She gave me leave myself to try, The valiant knight with sheeld and speare, Ere that her love shee wold grant me; Which made mee venture far and neare. Then proved I a baron bold,[257] In deeds of armes the doughtyest knight That in those dayes in England was, With sworde and speare in feild to fight. An English man I was by birthe: In faith of Christ a christyan true: The wicked lawes of infidells 15 I sought by prowesse to subdue. 'Nine' hundred twenty yeere and odde[258] After our Saviour Christ his birth, When king Athèlstone wore the crowne, I lived heere upon the earth. 20 Sometime I was of Warwicke erle, And, as I sayd, of very truth A ladyes love did me constraine To seeke strange ventures in my youth. To win me fame by feates of armes 25 In strange and sundry heathen lands; Where I atchieved for her sake Right dangerous conquests with my hands. For first I sayled to Normandye, And there I stoutlye wan in fight 30 The emperours daughter of Almaine, From manye a vallyant worthye knight. Then passed I the seas to Greece To helpe the emperour in his right; Against the mightye souldans hoaste 35 Of puissant Persians for to fight. Where I did slay of Sarazens, And heathen pagans, manye a man; And slew the souldans cozen deere, Who had to name doughtye Coldràn. 40 Eskeldered a famous knight To death likewise I did pursue: And Elmayne king of Tyre alsoe, Most terrible in fight to viewe. I went into the souldans hoast, 45 Being thither on embassage sent, And brought his head awaye with mee; I having slaine him in his tent. There was a dragon in that land Most fiercelye mett me by the waye 50 As hee a lyon did pursue, Which I myself did alsoe slay. Then soon I past the seas from Greece, And came to Pavye land aright: Where I the duke of Pavye killed, 55 His hainous treason to requite. To England then I came with speede, To wedd faire Phelis lady bright: For love of whome I travelled farr To try my manhood and my might. 60 But when I had espoused her, I stayd with her but fortye dayes, Ere that I left this ladye faire, And went from her beyond the seas. All cladd in gray, in pilgrim sort, 65 My voyage from her I did take Unto the blessed Holy-land, For Jesus Christ my Saviours sake. Where I erle Jonas did redeeme, And all his sonnes which were fifteene, 70 Who with the cruell Sarazens In prison for long time had beene. I slew the gyant Amarant In battel fiercelye hand to hand: And doughty Barknard killed I, 75 A treacherous knight of Pavye land. Then I to England came againe, And here with Colbronde fell I fought: An ugly gyant, which the Danes Had for their champion hither brought. 80 I overcame him in the feild, And slewe him soone right valliantlye; Wherebye this land I did redeeme From Danish tribute utterlye. And afterwards I offered upp 85 The use of weapons solemnlye At Winchester, whereas I fought, In sight of manye farr and nye. 'But first,' neare Winsor, I did slaye A bore of passing might and strength; 90 Whose like in England never was For hugenesse both in bredth, and length. Some of his bones in Warwicke yett, Within the castle there doe lye:[259] One of his sheeld-bones to this day 95 Hangs in the citye of Coventrye. On Dunsmore heath I alsoe slewe A monstrous wyld and cruell beast, Calld the Dun-cow of Dunsmore heath; Which manye people had opprest. 100 Some of her bones in Warwicke yett Still for a monument doe lye;[259] And there exposed to lookers viewe As wonderous strange, they may espye. A dragon in Northumberland, 105 I alsoe did in fight destroye, Which did bothe man and beast oppresse, And all the countrye sore annoye. At length to Warwicke I did come, Like pilgrim poore and was not knowne; 110 And there I lived a hermitts life A mile and more out of the towne. Where with my hands I hewed a house Out of a craggy rocke of stone; And lived like a palmer poore 115 Within that cave myself alone: And daylye came to begg my bread Of Phelis att my castle gate; Not knowne unto my loved wiffe Who dailye mourned for her mate. 120 Till att the last I fell sore sicke, Yea sicke soe sore that I must dye; I sent to her a ring of golde, By which shee knew me presentlye. Then shee repairing to the cave 125 Before that I gave up the ghost; Herself closd up my dying eyes: My Phelis faire, whom I lovd most. Thus dreadful death did me arrest, To bring my corpes unto the grave; 130 And like a palmer dyed I, Wherby I sought my soule to save. My body that endured this toyle, Though now it be consumed to mold; My statue faire engraven in stone, 135 In Warwicke still you may behold.

"When dreadful Mars in armour every day."

Guy journeyes towards that sanctifyed ground,[260] Whereas the Jewes fayre citye sometime stood, Wherin our Saviour's sacred head was crowned, And where for sinfull man he shed his blood: To see the sepulcher was his intent, 5 The tombe that Joseph unto Jesus lent. With tedious miles he tyred his wearye feet, And passed desart places full of danger, At last with a most woefull wight[261] did meet, A man that unto sorrow was noe stranger: 10 For he had fifteen sonnes, made captives all To slavish bondage, in extremest thrall. A gyant called Amarant detaind them, Whom noe man durst encounter for his strength: Who in a castle, which he held, had chaind them: 15 Guy questions, where? and understands at length The place not farr.—Lend me thy sword, quoth hee, Ile lend my manhood all thy sonnes to free. With that he goes, and lays upon the dore, Like one that sayes, I must, and will come in:[262] 20 The gyant never was soe rowz'd before;[263] For noe such knocking at his gate had bin: Soe takes his keyes, and clubb, and cometh out Staring with ireful countenance about. Sirra, quoth hee, what busines hast thou heere?[264] 25 Art come to feast the crowes about my walls?[265] Didst never heare, noe ransome can him cleere,[266] That in the compasse of my furye falls: For making me to take a porters paines, With this same clubb I will dash out thy braines. 30 Gyant, quoth Guy, y'are quarrelsome I see,[267] Choller and you seem very neere of kin:[268] Most dangerous at the clubb belike you bee;[269] I have bin better armed, though nowe goe thin; But shew thy utmost hate, enlarge thy spight, 35 Keene is my weapon, and shall doe me right.[270] Soe draws his sword, salutes him with the same[271] About the head, the shoulders, and the side:[272] Whilst his erected clubb doth death proclaime, Standinge with huge Colossus' spacious stride, 40 Putting such vigour to his knotty beame, That like a furnace he did smoke extreame. But on the ground he spent his strokes in vaine, For Guy was nimble to avoyde them still, And ever ere he heav'd his clubb againe,[273] 45 Did brush his plated coat against his will:[274] Att such advantage Guy wold never fayle, To bang him soundlye in his coate of mayle.[275] Att last through thirst the gyant feeble grewe,[276] And sayd to Guy, As thou'rt of humane race, 50 Shew itt in this, give natures wants their dewe,[277] Let me but goe, and drinke in yonder place: Thou canst not yeeld to "me" a smaller thing, Than to graunt life, thats given by the spring.[278] I graunt thee leave, quoth Guye, goe drink thy last,[279] 55 Go pledge the dragon, and the salvage bore[280]:[281] Succeed the tragedyes that they have past, But never thinke to taste cold water more:[282] Drinke deepe to Death and unto him carouse:[283] Bid him receive thee in his earthen house. 60 Soe to the spring he goes, and slakes his thirst; Takeing the water in extremely like Some wracked shipp that on a rocke is burst,[284] Whose forced hulke against the stones does stryke;[285] Scooping it in soe fast with both his hands, 65 That Guy admiring to behold it stands.[286] Come on, quoth Guy, let us to worke againe,[287] Thou stayest about thy liquor overlong; The fish, which in the river doe remaine, Will want thereby; thy drinking doth them wrong: But I will see their satisfaction made, 71 With gyants blood they must, and shall be payd. Villaine, quoth Amarant, Ile crush thee streight; Thy life shall pay thy daring toungs offence: This clubb, which is about some hundred weight, 75 Is deathes commission to dispatch thee hence:[288] Dresse thee for ravens dyett I must needes; And breake thy bones, as they were made of reedes. Incensed much by these bold pagan bostes,[289] Which worthye Guy cold ill endure to heare, 80 He hewes upon those bigg supporting postes, Which like two pillars did his body beare: Amarant for those wounds in choller growes And desperatelye att Guy his clubb he throwes: Which did directly on his body light, 85 Soe violent, and weighty there-withall,[290] That downe to ground on sudden came the knight; And, ere he cold recover from the fall,[291] The gyant gott his clubb againe in fist,[292] And aimd a stroke that wonderfullye mist.[293] 90 Traytor, quoth Guy, thy falshood Ile repay, This coward act to intercept my bloode. Sayes Amarant, Ile murther any way, With enemyes all vantages are good: O could I poyson in thy nostrills blowe, 95 Besure of it I wold dispatch thee soe.[294] Its well, said Guy, thy honest thoughts appeare, Within that beastlye bulke where devills dwell; Which are thy tenants while thou livest heare, But will be landlords when thou comest in hell: 100 Vile miscreant, prepare thee for their den, Inhumane monster, hatefull unto men.[295] But breathe thy selfe a time, while I goe drinke, For flameing Phœbus with his fyerye eye Torments me soe with burning heat, I thinke 105 My thirst wold serve to drinke an ocean drye: Forbear a litle, as I delt with thee. Quoth Amarant, 'Thou hast noe foole of mee. Noe, sillye wretch, my father taught more witt, How I shold use such enemyes as thou; 110 By all my gods I doe rejoice at itt, To understand that thirst constraines thee now; For all the treasure, that the world containes, One drop of water shall not coole thy vaines. Releeve my foe! why, 'twere a madmans part: 115 Refresh an adversarye to my wrong! If thou imagine this, a child thou art: Noe, fellow, I have known the world too long To be soe simple: now I know thy want, A minutes space of breathing I'll not grant.[296] 120 And with these words heaving aloft his clubb Into the ayre, he swings the same about: Then shakes his lockes, and doth his temples rubb, And, like the Cyclops, in his pride doth strout:[297] Sirra, sayes hee, I have you at a lift, 125 Now you are come unto your latest shift. Perish forever: with this stroke I send thee A medicine, that will doe thy thirst much good;[298] Take noe more care for drinke before I end thee, And then wee'll have carouses of thy blood: 130 Here's at thee with a butchers downright blow, To please my furye with thine overthrow. Infernall, false, obdurate feend, said Guy,[299] That seemst a lumpe of crueltye from hell;[300] Ungratefull monster, since thou dost deny[301] 135 The thing to mee wherin I used thee well: With more revenge, than ere my sword did make, On thy accursed head revenge Ile take. Thy gyants longitude shall shorter shrinke, Except thy sun-scorcht skin be weapon proof:[302] 140 Farewell my thirst; I doe disdaine to drinke, Streames keepe your waters to your owne behoof;[303] Or let wild beasts be welcome thereunto; With those pearle drops I will not have to do. Here, tyrant, take a taste of my good-will,[304] 145 For thus I doe begin my bloodye bout: You cannot chuse but like the greeting ill; It is not that same clubb will beare you out; And take this payment on thy shaggye crowne.— A blowe that brought him with a vengeance downe. 150 Then Guy sett foot upon the monsters brest, And from his shoulders did his head divide; Which with a yawninge mouth did gape, unblest; Noe dragons jawes were ever scene soe wide To open and to shut, till life was spent. 155 Then Guy tooke keyes and to the castle went. Where manye woefull captives he did find, Which had beene tyred with extremityes; Whom he in freindly manner did unbind, And reasoned with them of their miseryes:[305] 160 Eche told a tale with teares, and sighes, and cryes, All weeping to him with complaining eyes. There tender ladyes in darke dungeons lay,[306] That were surprised in the desart wood, And had noe other dyett everye day, 165 But flesh of humane creatures for their food:[307] Some with their lovers bodyes had beene fed, And in their wombes their husbands buryed. Now he bethinkes him of his being there, 169 To enlarge the wronged brethren from their woes; And, as he searcheth, doth great clamours heare, By which sad sound's direction on he goes, Untill he findes a darksome obscure gate, Arm'd strongly ouer all with iron plate. That he unlockes, and enters, where appeares, 175 The strangest object that he ever saw; Men that with famishment of many yeares, Were like deathes picture, which the painters draw;[308] Divers of them were hanged by eche thombe; Others head-downward: by the middle some. 180 With diligence he takes them from the walle,[309] With lybertye their thraldome to acquaint: Then the perplexed knight their father calls,[310] And sayes, Receive thy sonnes though poore and faint: I promisd you their lives, accept of that; 185 But did not warrant you they shold be fat.[311] The castle I doe give thee, heere's the keyes, Where tyranye for many yeeres did dwell: Procure the gentle tender ladyes ease, For pittyes sake, use wronged women well:[312] 190 Men easilye revenge the wrongs men do:[313] But poore weake women have not strength thereto.[314] The good old man, even overjoyed with this, Fell on the ground, and wold have kist Guys feete: Father, quoth he, refraine soe base a kiss, 195 For age to honor youth I hold unmeete: Ambitious pryde hath hurt mee all it can, I goe to mortifie a sinfull man.

Late in an evening forth I went A little before the sun gade down, And there I chanc't, by accident, To light on a battle new begun: A man and his wife wer fawn[315] in a strife, 5 I canna weel tell ye how it began; But aye she wail'd her wretched life, Cryeng, Evir alake, mine auld goodman!

Thy auld goodman, that thou tells of, The country kens where he was born, 10 Was but a silly poor vagabond, And ilka ane leugh him to scorn: For he did spend and make an end Of gear 'his fathers nevir' wan; He gart the poor stand frae the door; 15 Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.

My heart, alake! is liken to break, Whan I think on my winsome John, His blinkan ee, and gait sae free, Was naithing like thee, thou dosend[316] drone; 20 Wi' his rosie face, and flaxen hair, And skin as white as ony swan, He was large and tall, and comely withall; Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.

Why dost thou plein?[317] I thee maintein; 25 For meal and mawt thou disna want: But thy wild bees I canna please, Now whan our gear gins to grow scant: Of houshold stuff thou hast enough; Thou wants for neither pot nor pan; 30 Of sicklike ware he left thee bare; Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.

Yes I may tell, and fret my sell, To think on those blyth days I had, Whan I and he, together ley 35 In armes into a well-made bed: But now I sigh and may be sad, Thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan, Thou falds thy feet and fa's asleep; Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman. 40 Then coming was the night sae dark, And gane was a' the light of day? The carle was fear'd to miss his mark, And therefore wad nae longer stay: Then up he gat, and ran his way, 45 I trowe, the wife the day she wan; And aye the owreword[318] of the fray Was, Evir alake! mine auld goodman.

"You are no love for me, Margaret, I am no love for you."

"When it was grown to dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, In came Margarets grimly ghost And stood at Williams feet."

As it fell out on a long summer's day Two lovers they sat on a hill; They sat together that long summer's day, And could not talk their fill. I see no harm by you, Margarèt, 5 And you see none by mee; Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock A rich wedding you shall see. Fair Margaret sat in her bower-windòw, Combing her yellow hair; 10 There she spyed sweet William and his bride, As they were a riding near. Then down she layd her ivory combe, And braided her hair in twain: She went alive out of her bower, 15 But ne'er came alive in't again. When day was gone, and night was come, And all men fast asleep, Then came the spirit of fair Marg'ret, And stood at Williams feet. 20 Are you awake, sweet William? shee said; Or, sweet William, are you asleep? God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, And me of my winding-sheet. When day was come, and night was gone, 25 And all men wak'd from sleep, Sweet William to his lady sayd, My dear, I have cause to weep. I dreamt a dream, my dear ladyè, Such dreames are never good: 30 I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,'[319] And my bride-bed full of blood. Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured Sir, They never do prove good; To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,'[319] 35 And thy bride-bed full of blood. He called up his merry men all, By one, by two, and by three; Saying, I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower, By the leave of my ladiè. 40 And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower, He knocked at the ring; And who so ready as her seven brethrèn To let sweet William in. Then he turned up the covering-sheet, 45 Pray let me see the dead; Methinks she looks all pale and wan, She hath lost her cherry red. I'll do more for thee, Margarèt, Than any of thy kin; 50 For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, Though a smile I cannot win. With that bespake the seven brethrèn, Making most piteous mone: You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, 55 And let our sister alone. If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, I do but what is right; I neer made a vow to yonder poor corpse By day, nor yet by night. 60 Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, Deal on your cake and your wine[320]: For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine. Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, 65 Sweet William dyed the morrow: Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love, Sweet William dyed for sorrow. Margaret was buryed in the lower chancèl, And William in the higher: 70 Out of her brest there sprang a rose, And out of his a briar. They grew till they grew unto the church-top, And then they could grow no higher; And there they tyed in a true lovers knot, 75 Which made all the people admire. Then came the clerk of the parìsh, As you the truth shall hear, And by misfortune cut them down, Or they had now been there. 80

In Scarlet towne, where I was borne, There was a faire maid dwellin, Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merrye month of may, 5 When greene buds they were swellin, Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. He sent his man unto her then, To the town, where shee was dwellin; 10 You must come to my master deare, Giff your name be Barbara Allen. For death is printed on his face, And ore his hart is stealin: Then haste away to comfort him, 15 O lovelye Barbara Allen. Though death be printed on his face, And ore his harte is stealin, Yet little better shall he bee, For bonny Barbara Allen. 20 So slowly, slowly, she came up, And slowly she came nye him; And all she sayd, when there she came, Young man, I think y'are dying. He turnd his face unto her strait, 25 With deadlye sorrow sighing; O lovely maid, come pity mee, Ime on my deth-bed lying. If on your death-bed you doe lye, What needs the tale you are tellin: 30 I cannot keep you from your death; Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen. He turnd his face unto the wall, As deadlye pangs he fell in: Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, 35 Adieu to Barbara Allen. As she was walking ore the fields, She heard the bell a knellin; And every stroke did seem to saye, Unworthy Barbara Allen. 40 She turnd her bodye round about, And spied the corps a coming: Laye down, laye down the corps, she sayd That I may look upon him. With scornful eye she looked downe, 45 Her cheeke with laughter swellin; Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine, Unworthye Barbara Allen. When he was dead, and laid in grave, Her harte was struck with sorrowe, 50 O mother, mother, make my bed, For I shall dye to-morrowe. Hard harted creature him to slight, Who loved me so dearlye: O that I had beene more kind to him, 55 When he was alive and neare me! She, on her death-bed as she laye, Beg'd to be buried by him; And sore repented of the daye, That she did ere denye him. 60 Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen.

There came a ghost to Margaret's door, With many a grievous grone, And ay he tirled at the pin;[321] But answer made she none. Is this my father Philip? 5 Or is't my brother John? Or is't my true love Willie, From Scotland new come home? 'Tis not thy father Philip; Nor yet thy brother John: 10 But tis thy true love Willie From Scotland new come home, O sweet Margret! O dear Margret! I pray thee speak to mee: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, 15 As I gave it to thee. Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'Of me shalt nevir win,' Till that thou come within my bower, And kiss my cheek and chin. 20 If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lipp, Thy days will not be lang. O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, 25 I pray thee speak to mee: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee. Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'Of me shalt nevir win,' 30 Till thou take me to yon kirk yard, And wed me with a ring. My bones are buried in a kirk yard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my sprite, Margret, 35 That's speaking now to thee. She stretched out her lilly-white hand, As for to do her best: Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest. 40 Now she has kilted her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corps followed shee. Is there any room at your head, Willie? 45 Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willie, Wherein that I may creep? There's nae room at my head, Margret, There's nae room at my feet, 50 There's no room at my side, Margret, My coffin is made so meet. Then up and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the gray: Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret, 55 That 'I' were gane away. [No more the ghost to Margret said, But, with a grievous grone, Evanish'd in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone. 60 O stay, my only true love, stay, The constant Margret cried: Wan grew her cheeks, she clos'd her een, Stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.]

It was in and about the Martinmas time, When the greene leaves wer a fallan; That Sir John Grehme o' the west countrye, Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan. He sent his man down throw the towne, 5 To the plaice wher she was dwellan: O haste and cum to my maister deare, Gin ye bin Barbara Allan. O hooly, hooly raise she up, To the plaice wher he was lyan; 10 And whan she drew the curtain by, Young man, I think ye're dyan.[322] O its I'm sick, and very very sick, And its a' for Barbara Allan. O the better for me ye'se never be, 15 Though your harts blude wer spillan. Remember ye nat in the tavern, sir, Whan ye the cups wer fillan; How ye made the healths gae round and round, And slighted Barbara Allan? 20 He turn'd his face unto the wa' And death was with him dealan; Adiew! adiew! my dear friends a', Be kind to Barbara Allan. Then hooly, hooly raise she up, 25 And hooly, hooly left him; And sighan said, she could not stay, Since death of life had reft him. She had not gane a mile but twa, Whan she heard the deid-bell knellan; 30 And everye jow the deid-bell geid, Cried, Wae to Barbara Allan! O mither, mither, mak my bed, O make it saft and narrow: Since my love died for me to-day, 35 Ise die for him to morrowe.

There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, And he was a squires son; He loved the bayliffes daughter deare, That lived in Islington. Yet she was coye and would not believe 5 That he did love her soe, Noe nor at any time would she Any countenance to him showe. But when his friendes did understand His fond and foolish minde, 10 They sent him up to faire London An apprentice for to binde. And when he had been seven long yeares, And never his love could see: Many a teare have I shed for her sake, 15 When she little thought of mee. Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and playe, All but the bayliffes daughter deare; She secretly stole awaye. 20 She pulled off her gowne of greene, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would go Her true love to enquire. And as she went along the high road, 25 The weather being hot and drye, She sat her downe upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye. She started up, with a colour soe redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine; 30 One penny, one penny, kind sir, she sayd, Will ease me of much paine. Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Praye tell me where you were borne. At Islington, kind sir, sayd shee, 35 Where I have had many a scorne. I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, O tell me, whether you knowe The bayliffes daughter of Islington, She is dead, sir, long agoe. 40 If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will into some farr countrye, Where noe man shall me knowe. O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, 45 She standeth by thy side; She is here alive, she is not dead, And readye to be thy bride. O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, Ten thousand times therefore; 50 For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, Whom I thought I should never see more.

How now, shepherde, what meanes that? Why that willowe in thy hat? Why thy scarffes of red and yellowe Turn'd to branches of greene willowe?

They are chang'd, and so am I; 5 Sorrowes live, but pleasures die: Phillis hath forsaken mee, Which makes me weare the willowe-tree.

Phillis! shee that lov'd thee long? Is shee the lass hath done thee wrong? 10 Shee that lov'd thee long and best, Is her love turn'd to a jest?

Shee that long true love profest, She hath robb'd my heart of rest: For she a new love loves, not mee; 15 Which makes me wear the willowe-tree.

Come then, shepherde, let us joine, Since thy happ is like to mine: For the maid I thought most true, Mee hath also bid adieu. 20

Thy hard happ doth mine appease, Companye doth sorrowe ease: Yet, Phillis, still I pine for thee, And still must weare the willowe-tree.

Shepherde, be advis'd by mee, 25 Cast off grief and willowe-tree: For thy grief brings her content, She is pleas'd if thou lament.

Herdsman, I'll be rul'd by thee, There lyes grief and willowe-tree: 30 Henceforth I will do as they, And love a new love every day.

"In pescod time when hound to horn Gives eare till buck be kil'd, And little lads with pipes of corne Sate keeping beasts a-field." "I went to gather strawberries By woods and groves full fair, &c."

Marke well my heavy dolefull tale, You loyall lovers all, And heedfully beare in your brest, A gallant ladyes fall. Long was she wooed, ere shee was wonne, 5 To lead a wedded life, But folly wrought her overthrowe Before she was a wife. Too soone, alas! shee gave consent And yeelded to his will, 10 Though he protested to be true, And faithfull to her still. Shee felt her body altered quite, Her bright hue waxed pale, Her lovelye cheeks chang'd color white,[324] 15 Her strength began to fayle. Soe that with many a sorrowful sigh,[325] This beauteous ladye milde, With greeved hart, perceived herselfe To have conceived with childe.[326] 20 Shee kept it from her parents sight As close as close might bee, And soe put on her silken gowne None might her swelling see.[327] Unto her lover secretly 25 Her greefe shee did bewray, And walking with him hand in hand, These words to him did say; Behold, quoth shee, a maids distresse[328] By love brought to thy bowe;[329] 30 Behold I goe with childe by thee,[330] Tho none thereof doth knowe. The litle babe springs in my wombe[331] To heare its fathers voyce, Lett it not be a bastard called,[332] 35 Sith I made thee my choyce: [Come, come, my love, perform thy vowe[333] And wed me out of hand;[333] O leave me not in this extreme[333] Of griefe, alas! to stand.][333] 40 Think on thy former promises, Thy oathes and vowes eche one;[334] Remember with what bitter teares To mee thou madest thy moane. Convay me to some secrett place, 45 And marry me with speede; Or with thy rapyer end my life, Ere further shame proceede.[335] Alacke! my beauteous love, quoth hee,[336] My joye, and only dear;[337] 50 Which way can I convay thee hence,[338] When dangers are so near?[339] Thy friends are all of hye degree,[340] And I of meane estate; Full hard it is to gett thee forthe[341] 55 Out of thy fathers gate.[342] Dread not thy life to save my fame,[343] For if thou taken bee,[344] My selfe will step betweene the swords,[345] And take the harme on mee:[346] 60 Soe shall I scape dishonor quite;[347] And if I should be slaine[348] What could they say, but that true love Had wrought a ladyes bane.[349] But feare not any further harme; 65 My selfe will soe devise, That I will ryde away with thee[350] Unknowen of mortall eyes: Disguised like some pretty page Ile meete thee in the darke, 70 And all alone Ile come to thee Hard by my fathers parke. And there, quoth hee, Ile meete my deare If God soe lend me life, On this day month without all fayle 75 I will make thee my wife.[351] Then with a sweet and loving kisse,[352] They parted presentlye, And att their partinge brinish teares Stoode in eche others eye, 80 Att length the wished day was come,[353] On which this beauteous mayd, With longing eyes, and strange attire, For her true lover stayd. When any person shee espyed[354] 85 Come ryding ore the plaine,[355] She hop'd it was her owne true love:[356] But all her hopes were vaine. Then did shee weepe and sore bewayle Her most unhappy fate; 90 Then did shee speake these woefull words, As succourless she sate;[357] O false, forsworne, and faithlesse man,[358] Disloyall in thy love, Hast thou forgott thy promise past, 95 And wilt thou perjured prove? And hast thou now forsaken mee In this my great distresse, To end my dayes in open shame,[359] Which thou mightst well redresse?[360] 100 Woe worth the time I eer believ'd[361] That flattering tongue of thine: Wold God that I had never seene The teares of thy false eyne. And thus with many a sorrowful sigh,[362] 105 Homewards shee went againe;[363] Noe rest came in her waterye eyes, Shee felt such privye paine.[364] In travail strong shee fell that night, With many a bitter throwe;[365] 110 What woefull paines shee then did feel,[366] Doth eche good woman knowe. Shee called up her waiting mayd,[367] That lay at her bedds feete,[368] Who musing at her mistress woe,[369] 115 Began full fast to weepe. Weepe not, said shee, but shutt the dores,[370] And windowes round about,[371] Let none bewray my wretched state, But keepe all persons out. 120 O mistress, call your mother deare; Of women you have neede, And of some skilfull midwifes helpe,[372] That better may you speed.[373] Call not my mother for thy life, 125 Nor fetch no woman here; The midwives helpe comes all too late, My death I doe not feare. With that the babe sprang from her wombe No creature being nye,[374] 130 And with one sighe, which brake her hart, This gentle dame did dye.[375] The lovely litle infant younge,[376] [The mother being dead,][377] Resigned its new received breath, 135 To him that had it made. Next morning came her own true love, Affrighted at the newes,[378] And he for sorrow slew himselfe, Whom eche one did accuse. 140 The mother with her new borne babe, Were laide both in one grave: Their parents overworne with woe, No joy thenceforth cold have.[379] Take heed, you dayntye damsells all, 145 Of flattering words beware, And to the honour of your name Have an especial care.[380] [Too true, alas! this story is,[381] As many one can tell:[381] 150 By others harmes learne to be wise,[381] And you shall do full well.][381]

"Whan cockle shells turn siller bells, And muscles grow on every tree, When frost and snaw sall warm us aw', Than sall my love prove true to me."

Hey trollie lollie, love is jollie, A quhile, quhil itt is new Quhen it is old, it grows full cold, Wae worth the love untrue.

"When cockle shells turn silver bells, When wine drieps red frae ilka tree, When frost and snaw will warm us a' Then I'll cum down and dine wi' thee,"

O waly[382] waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn side, Where I and my love wer wont to gae. I leant my back unto an aik, 5 I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lichtly me. O waly, waly, gin love be bonny, A little time while it is new; 10 But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherfore shuld I busk my head? Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook, 15 And says he'll never loe me mair. Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed, The sheets shall neir be fyl'd[383] by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. 20 Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum? For of my life I am wearìe. Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, 25 Nor blawing snaws inclemencìe; 'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry, But my loves heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgowe town, We were a comely sight to see, 30 My love was cled in black velvet, And I my-sell in cramasie.[384] But had I wist, before I kisst, That love had been sae ill to win; I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, 35 And pinnd it with a siller pin. And, oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurses knee, And I my sell were dead and gane! For a maid again Ise never be. 40

Come mourne, come mourne with mee, You loyall lovers all; Lament my loss in weeds of woe, Whom griping grief doth thrall. Like to the drooping vine, 5 Cut by the gardener's knife, Even so my heart, with sorrow slaine, Doth bleed for my sweet wife. By death, that grislye ghost, My turtle dove is slaine, 10 And I am left, unhappy man, To spend my dayes in paine. Her beauty late so bright, Like roses in their prime, Is wasted like the mountain snowe, 15 Before warme Phebus' shine. Her faire red colour'd cheeks Now pale and wan; her eyes, That late did shine like crystal stars; Alas, their light it dies: 20 Her prettye lilly hands, With fingers long and small, In colour like the earthly claye, Yea, cold and stiff withall. When as the morning star 25 Her golden gates had spred, And that the glittering sun arose Forth from fair Thetis' bed; Then did my love awake, Most like a lilly-flower, 30 And as the lovely queene of heaven, So shone shee in her bower. Attired was shee then, Like Flora in her pride, Like one of bright Diana's nymphs, 35 So look'd my loving bride. And as fair Helen's face, Did Grecian dames besmirche, So did my dear exceed in sight, All virgins in the church. 40 When we had knitt the knott Of holy wedlock-band, Like alabaster joyn'd to jett, So stood we hand in hand; Then lo! a chilling cold 45 Strucke every vital part, And griping grief, like pangs of death, Seiz'd on my true love's heart. Down in a swoon she fell, As cold as any stone; 50 Like Venus picture lacking life, So was my love brought home. At length her rosye red, Throughout her comely face, As Phœbus beames with watry cloudes 55 Was cover'd for a space. When with a grievous groane, And voice both hoarse and drye, Farewell, quoth she, my loving friend, For I this daye must dye; 60 The messenger of God, With golden trumpe I see, With manye other angels more, Which sound and call for mee. Instead of musicke sweet, 65 Go toll my passing-bell; And with sweet flowers strow my grave, That in my chamber smell. Strip off my bride's arraye, My cork shoes from my feet; 70 And, gentle mother, be not coye To bring my winding-sheet. My wedding dinner drest, Bestowe upon the poor, And on the hungry, needy, maimde, 75 Now craving at the door. Instead of virgins yong, My bride-bed for to see, Go cause some cunning carpenter, To make a chest for mee. 80 My bride laces of silk Bestowd, for maidens meet, May fitly serve, when I am dead, To tye my hands and feet. And thou, my lover true, 85 My husband and my friend, Let me intreat thee here to staye, Until my life doth end. Now leave to talk of love, And humblye on your knee, 90 Direct your prayers unto God: But mourn no more for mee. In love as we have livde, In love let us depart; And I, in token of my love, 95 Do kiss thee with my heart. O staunch those bootless teares, Thy weeping tis in vaine; I am not lost, for wee in heaven Shall one daye meet againe. 100 With that shee turn'd aside, As one dispos'd to sleep, And like a lamb departed life; Whose friends did sorely weep. Her true love seeing this, 105 Did fetch a grievous groane, As tho' his heart would burst in twaine, And thus he made his moane. O darke and dismal daye, A daye of grief and care, 110 That hath bereft the sun so bright, Whose beams refresht the air. Now woe unto the world, And all that therein dwell, O that I were with thee in heaven, 115 For here I live in hell. And now this lover lives A discontented life, Whose bride was brought unto the grave A maiden and a wife. 120 A garland fresh and faire Of lillies there was made, In sign of her virginitye, And on her coffin laid.[385] Six maidens, all in white, 125 Did beare her to the ground: The bells did ring in solemn sort, And made a dolefull sound. In earth they laid her then, For hungry wormes a preye; 130 So shall the fairest face alive At length be brought to claye.

"Words whose hopes might have enjoyned"

As at noone Dulcina rested In her sweete and shady bower; Came a shepherd, and requested In her lapp to sleepe an hour. But from her looke 5 A wounde he tooke Soe deepe, that for a further boone The nymph he prayes. Wherto shee sayes, Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 10 But in vayne shee did conjure him To depart her presence soe; Having a thousand tongues to allure him, And but one to bid him goe: Where lipps invite, 15 And eyes delight, And cheekes, as fresh as rose in june, Persuade delay; What boots, she say, Forgoe me now, come to me soone? 20 He demands what time for pleasure Can there be more fit than now: She sayes, night gives love that leysure, Which the day can not allow. He sayes, the sight 25 'Improves delight. 'Which she denies: Nights mirkie noone In Venus' playes Makes bold, shee sayes; Forgoe me now, come to mee soone. 30 But what promise or profession From his hands could purchase scope? Who would sell the sweet possession Of suche beautye for a hope? Or for the sight 35 Of lingering night Foregoe the present joyes of noone? Though ne'er soe faire Her speeches were, Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 40 How, at last, agreed these lovers? Shee was fayre, and he was young: The tongue may tell what th'eye discovers; Joyes unseene are never sung. Did shee consent, 45 Or he relent; Accepts he night, or grants shee noone; Left he her a mayd, Or not; she sayd Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 50

There was a lord of worthy fame, And a hunting he would ride, Attended by a noble traine Of gentrye by his side. And while he did in chase remaine, 5 To see both sport and playe; His ladye went, as she did feigne, Unto the church to praye. This lord he had a daughter deare, Whose beauty shone so bright, 10 She was belov'd, both far and neare, Of many a lord and knight. Fair Isabella was she call'd, A creature faire was shee; She was her father's only joye; 15 As you shall after see. Therefore her cruel step-mothèr Did envye her so much; That daye by daye she sought her life, Her malice it was such. 20 She bargain'd with the master-cook, To take her life awaye: And taking of her daughters book, She thus to her did saye. Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, 25 Go hasten presentlie; And tell unto the master-cook These wordes that I tell thee. And bid him dresse to dinner streight That faire and milk-white doe, 30 That in the parke doth shine so bright, There's none so faire to showe. This ladye fearing of no harme, Obey'd her mothers will; And presentlye she hasted home, 35 Her pleasure to fulfill. She streight into the kitchen went, Her message for to tell; And there she spied the master-cook, Who did with malice swell. 40 Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe, Do that which I thee tell: You needes must dresse the milk-white doe, Which you do knowe full well. Then streight his cruell bloodye hands, 45 He on the ladye layd; Who quivering and shaking stands, While thus to her he sayd: Thou art the doe, that I must dresse; See here, behold my knife; 50 For it is pointed presently To rid thee of thy life. O then, cried out the scullion-boye, As loud as loud might bee; O save her life, good master-cook, 55 And make your pyes of mee! For pityes sake do not destroye My ladye with your knife; You know shee is her father's joye, For Christes sake save her life. 60 I will not save her life, he sayd, Nor make my pyes of thee; Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye, Thy butcher I will bee. Now when this lord he did come home 65 For to sit downe and eat; He called for his daughter deare, To come and carve his meat. Now sit you downe, his ladye sayd, O sit you downe to meat: 70 Into some nunnery she is gone; Your daughter deare forget. Then solemnlye he made a vowe, Before the companìe: That he would neither eat nor drinke, 75 Until he did her see. O then bespake the scullion-boye, With a loud voice so hye: If now you will your daughter see, My lord, cut up that pye: 80 Wherein her fleshe is minced small, And parched with the fire: All caused by her step-mothèr, Who did her death desire. And cursed bee the master-cook, 85 O cursed may he bee! I proffered him my own hearts blood, From death to set her free. Then all in blacke this lord did mourne; And for his daughters sake, 90 He judged her cruell step-mothèr To be burnt at a stake. Likewise he judg'd the master-cook In boiling lead to stand; And made the simple scullion-boye 95 The heire of all his land.

"At his sight the sun hath turn'd, Neptune in the waters burn'd; Hell hath felt a greater heat; Jove himself forsook his seat: From the centre to the sky Are his trophies reared high."]

[1 Grace.] Beauties have yee seen a toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blinde; Cruel now; and then as kinde? If he be amongst yee, say; 5 He is Venus' run away. [2 Grace.] Shee, that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall to-night receive a kisse, How and where herselfe would wish: 10 But who brings him to his mother Shall have that kisse, and another. [3 Grace.] Markes he hath about him plentie; You may know him among twentie: All his body is a fire, 15 And his breath a flame entire: Which, being shot, like lightning, in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin. * * * * * [2 Grace.] Wings he hath, which though yee clip, He will leape from lip to lip, 20 Over liver, lights, and heart; Yet not stay in any part. And, if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himselfe in kisses. [3 Grace.] He doth beare a golden bow, 25 And a quiver hanging low, Full of arrowes, which outbrave Dian's shafts; where, if he have Any head more sharpe than other, With that first he strikes his mother. 30 [1 Grace.] Still the fairest are his fuell, When his daies are to be cruell; Lovers hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest bloud: Nought but wounds his hand doth season, 35 And he hates none like to Reason. [2 Grace.] Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldome with his heart doe meet: All his practice is deceit; Everie gift is but a bait; 40 Not a kisse but poyson beares; And most treason's in his teares. [3 Grace.] Idle minutes are his raigne; Then the straggler makes his gaine, By presenting maids with toyes 45 And would have yee thinke hem joyes; 'Tis the ambition of the elfe To have all childish as himselfe. [1 Grace.] If by these yee please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 50 [2 Grace.] Though ye had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him. [3 Grace.] Since yee heare this falser's play, And that he is Venus' run-away.

"Their mothers riche array Was of crimson velvet,"

In the dayes of old, When faire France did flourish, Storyes plaine have told, Lovers felt annoye. The queene a daughter bare, 5 Whom beautye's queene did nourish: She was lovelye faire She was her father's joye. A prince of England came, Whose deeds did merit fame, 10 But he was exil'd, and outcast: Love his soul did fire, Shee granted his desire, Their hearts in one were linked fast. Which when her father proved, 15 Sorelye he was moved, And tormented in his minde. He sought for to prevent them; And, to discontent them, Fortune cross'd these lovers kinde. 20 When these princes twaine Were thus barr'd of pleasure, Through the kinges disdaine, Which their joyes withstoode: The lady soone prepar'd 25 Her jewells and her treasure; Having no regard For state and royall bloode; In homelye poore array She went from court away, 30 To meet her joye and hearts delight; Who in a forest great Had taken up his seat, To wayt her coming in the night. But, lo! what sudden danger 35 To this princely stranger Chanced, as he sate alone! By outlawes he was robbed, And with ponyards stabbed, Uttering many a dying grone. 40 The princesse, arm'd by love, And by chaste desire, All the night did rove Without dread at all: Still unknowne she past 45 In her strange attire; Coming at the last Within echoes call,— You faire woods, quoth shee, Honoured may you bee, 50 Harbouring my heart's delight; Which encompass here My joye and only deare, My trustye friend, and comelye knight. Sweete, I come unto thee, 55 Sweete, I come to woo thee; That thou mayst not angry bee For my long delaying; For thy curteous staying Soone amendes Ile make to thee. 60 Passing thus alone Through the silent forest, Many a grievous grone Sounded in her eares: She heard one complayne 65 And lament the sorest, Seeming all in payne, Shedding deadly teares. Farewell, my deare, quoth hee, Whom I must never see; 70 For why my life is att an end, Through villaines crueltye: For thy sweet sake I dye, To show I am a faithfull friend. Here I lye a bleeding, 75 While my thoughts are feeding On the rarest beautye found. O hard happ, that may be! Little knows my ladye My heartes blood lyes on the ground. 80 With that a grone he sends Which did burst in sunder All the tender bands Of his gentle heart. She, who knewe his voice, 85 At his wordes did wonder; All her former joyes Did to griefe convert. Strait she ran to see, Who this man shold bee, 90 That soe like her love did seeme: Her lovely lord she found Lye slaine upon the ground, Smear'd with gore a ghastlye streame. Which his lady spying, 95 Shrieking, fainting, crying, Her sorrows could not uttered bee: Fate, she cryed, too cruell: For thee—my dearest jewell, Would God! that I had dyed for thee. 100 His pale lippes, alas! Twentye times she kissed, And his face did wash With her trickling teares: Every gaping wound 105 Tenderlye she pressed, And did wipe it round With her golden haires. Speake, faire love, quoth shee, Speake, fair prince, to mee, 110 One sweete word of comfort give: Lift up thy deare eyes, Listen to my cryes, Thinke in what sad griefe I live. All in vain she sued, 115 All in vain she wooed, The prince's life was fled and gone. There stood she still mourning, Till the suns retourning, And bright day was coming on. 120 In this great distresse Weeping, wayling ever, Oft shee cryed, alas! What will become of mee? To my fathers court 125 I returne will never: But in lowlye sort I will a servant bee. While thus she made her mone, Weeping all alone, 130 In this deepe and deadlye feare: A for'ster all in greene, Most comelye to be seene, Ranging the woods did find her there. Moved with her sorrowe, 135 Maid, quoth hee, good morrowe, What hard happ has brought thee here? Harder happ did never Two kinde hearts dissever: Here lyes slaine my brother deare. 140 Where may I remaine, Gentle for'ster, shew me, 'Till I can obtaine A service in my neede? Paines I will not spare: 145 This kinde favour doe me, It will ease my care; Heaven shall be thy meede. The for'ster all amazed, On her beautye gazed, 150 Till his heart was set on fire. If, faire maid, quoth hee, You will goe with mee, You shall have your hearts desire. He brought her to his mother, 155 And above all other He sett forth this maidens praise. Long was his heart inflamed, At length her love he gained, And fortune crown'd his future dayes. 160 Thus unknowne he wedde With a kings faire daughter; Children seven they had, 'Ere she told her birth. Which when once he knew, 165 Humblye he besought her, He to the world might shew Her rank and princelye worth. He cloath'd his children then, (Not like other men) 170 In partye-colours strange to see; The right side cloth of gold, The left side to behold, Of woollen cloth still framed hee[386]. Men thereat did wonder; 175 Golden fame did thunder This strange deede in every place: The king of France came thither, It being pleasant weather, In those woods the hart to chase. 180 The children then they bring, So their mother will'd it, Where the royall king Must of force come bye: Their mothers riche array, 185 Was of crimson velvet: Their fathers all of gray, Seemelye to the eye. Then this famous king, Noting every thing, 190 Askt how he durst be so bold To let his wife soe weare, And decke his children there In costly robes of pearl and gold. The forrester replying, 195 And the cause descrying[387], To the king these words did say, Well may they, by their mother, Weare rich clothes with other, Being by birth a princesse gay. 200 The king aroused thus, More heedfullye beheld them, Till a crimson blush His remembrance crost. The more I fix my mind 205 On thy wife and children, The more methinks I find The daughter which I lost. Falling on her knee, I am that child, quoth shee; 210 Pardon mee, my soveraine liege. The king perceiving this, His daughter deare did kiss, While joyfull teares did stopp his speeche. With his traine he tourned, 215 And with them sojourned. Strait he dubb'd her husband knight; Then made him erle of Flanders, And chiefe of his commanders: Thus were their sorrowes put to flight. 220

Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast: Still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd: Lady, it is to be presum'd, Though art's hid causes are not found, 5 All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a looke, give me a face, That makes simplicitie a grace; Robes loosely flowing, haire as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me, 10 Than all th' adulteries of art, That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

... robin-red-breast piously Did cover them with leaves,

... "the ruddock would, With charitable bill.... ... bring thee all this, Yea and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, To winter-ground thy corse."

"Call for the robin red breast and the wren Since o'er shady groves they hover And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men."

"Cov'ring with moss the dead's unclosed eye The little red-breast teacheth charitie."

Now ponder well, you parents deare, These wordes, which I shall write; A doleful story you shall heare, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account 5 In Norfolke dwelt of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate. Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, No helpe his life could save; 10 His wife by him as sicke did lye, And both possest one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kinde, In love they liv'd, in love they dyed, 15 And left two babes behinde: The one a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three yeares olde; The other a girl more young than he, And fram'd in beautyes molde. 20 The father left his little son, As plainlye doth appeare, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred poundes a yeare. And to his little daughter Jane 25 Five hundred poundes in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controll'd: But if the children chance to dye, Ere they to age should come, 30 Their uncle should possesse their wealth; For so the wille did run. Now, brother, said the dying man, Look to my children deare; Be good unto my boy and girl, 35 No friendes else have they here: To God and you I recommend My children deare this daye; But little while be sure we have Within this world to staye. 40 You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; God knowes what will become of them, When I am dead and gone. With that bespake their mother deare, 45 O brother kinde, quoth shee, You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or miserie: And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward; 50 But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deedes regard. With lippes as cold as any stone, They kist their children small: God bless you both, my children deare; 55 With that the teares did fall. These speeches then their brother spake To this sicke couple there, The keeping of your little ones Sweet sister, do not feare; 60 God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children deare, When you are layd in grave. The parents being dead and gone, 65 The children home he takes, And bringes them straite unto his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a daye, 70 But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both awaye. He bargain'd with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, 75 And slaye them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale, He would the children send To be brought up in faire Londòn, With one that was his friend. 80 Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoycing at that tide, Rejoycing with a merry minde, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, 85 As they rode on the waye, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives decaye: So that the pretty speeche they had, Made Murder's heart relent; 90 And they that undertooke the deed, Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them more hard of heart, Did vowe to do his charge, Because the wretch, that hired him, 95 Had paid him very large. The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; With one another they did fight, About the childrens life: 100 And he that was of mildest mood, Did slaye the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; The babes did quake for feare! He took the children by the hand, 105 Teares standing in their eye, And bad them straitwaye follow him, And look they did not crye: And two long miles he ledd them on, While they for food complaine: 110 Staye here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread, When I come back againe. These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and downe; But never more could see the man 115 Approaching from the town: Their prettye lippes with black-berries, Were all besmear'd and dyed, And when they sawe the darksome night, They sat them downe and cryed. 120 Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till deathe did end their grief, In one anothers armes they dyed, As wanting due relief: No burial 'this' pretty 'pair'[388] 125 Of any man receives, Till Robin-red-breast piously Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrathe of God Upon their uncle fell; 130 Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell: His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd, His landes were barren made, His cattle dyed within the field, 135 And nothing with him stayd. And in a voyage to Portugal[389] Two of his sonnes did dye; And to conclude, himselfe was brought To want and miserye: 140 He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land Ere seven yeares came about. And now at length this wicked act Did by this meanes come out: The fellowe, that did take in hand 145 These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judg'd to dye, Such was God's blessed will: Who did confess the very truth, As here hath been display'd: 150 Their uncle having dyed in gaol, Where he for debt was layd. You that executors be made, And overseers eke Of children that be fatherless, 155 And infants mild and meek; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like miserye Your wicked minds requite. 160

A lover of late was I, For Cupid would have it soe, The boy that hath never an eye, As every man doth know: I sighed and sobbed, and cryed, alas! 5 For her that laught, and called me ass. Then knew not I what to doe, When I saw itt was in vaine[390] A lady soe coy to wooe, Who gave me the asse soe plaine:[391] 10 Yet would I her asse freelye bee, Soe shee would helpe, and beare with mee. An' I were as faire as shee,[392] Or shee were as kind as I,[393] What payre cold have made, as wee, 15 Soe prettye a sympathye: I was as kind as she was faire, But for all this wee cold not paire. Paire with her that will for mee, With her I will never paire; 20 That cunningly can be coy, For being a little faire. The asse Ile leave to her disdaine; And now I am myselfe againe.

Of that name were Kings three But Edward with the long shanks was he, A lord of great renown.

Henry, our royall king, would ride a hunting To the greene forest so pleasant and faire; To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping: Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire: Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd 5 For the game, in the same, with good regard. All a long summers day rode the king pleasantlye, With all his princes and nobles eche one; Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye, Till the dark evening forc'd all to turne home. 10 Then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite All his lords in the wood, late in the night. Wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe, With a rude miller he mett at the last: Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham; 15 Sir, quoth the miller, I meane not to jest, Yet I thinke, what I thinke, sooth for to say, You doe not lightlye ride out of your way. Why, what dost thou think of me, quoth our king merrily, Passing thy judgment upon me so briefe? 20 Good faith, sayd the miller, I meane not to flatter thee; I guess thee to be but some gentleman thiefe; Stand thee backe, in the darke; light not adowne, Lest that I presentlye cracke thy knaves crowne. Thou dost abuse me much, quoth the king, saying thus; 25 I am a gentleman; lodging I lacke. Thou hast not, quoth th' miller, one groat in thy purse; All thy inheritance hanges on thy backe.[395] I have gold to discharge all that I call; If it be forty pence, I will pay all. 30 If thou beest a true man, then quoth the miller, I sweare by my toll-dish, I'll lodge thee all night. Here's my hand, quoth the king, that was I ever. Nay, soft, quoth the miller, thou may'st be a sprite. Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake; 35 With none but honest men hands will I take. Thus they went all along unto the miller's house; Where they were seething of puddings and souse:[396] The miller first enter'd in, after him went the king; Never came hee in soe smoakye a house. 40 Now, quoth hee, let me see here what you are. Quoth our king, looke your fill, and doe not spare. I like well thy countenance, thou hast an honest face With my son Richard this night thou shalt lye. Quoth his wife, by my troth, it is a handsome youth, 45 Yet it's best, husband, to deal warilye. Art thou no run away, prythee, youth, tell? Shew me thy passport, and all shal be well. Then our king presentlye, making lowe courtesye, With his hatt in his hand, thus he did say; 50 I have no passport, nor never was servitor, But a poor courtyer, rode out of my way: And for your kindness here offered to mee, I will requite you in everye degree. Then to the miller his wife whisper'd secretlye, 55 Saying, It seemeth, this youth's of good kin, Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners; To turne him out, certainlye, were a great sin. Yea, quoth hee, you may see, he hath some grace When he doth speake to his betters in place. 60 Well, quo' the millers wife, young man, ye're welcome here; And, though I say it, well lodged shall be: Fresh straw will I have, laid on thy bed so brave, And good brown hempen sheets likewise, quoth shee. Aye, quoth the good man; and when that is done, 65 Thou shalt lye with no worse, than our own sonne. Nay, first, quoth Richard, good-fellowe, tell me true, Host thou noe creepers within thy gay hose? Or art thou not troubled with the scabbado? I pray, quoth the king, what creatures are those? 70 Art thou not lowsy, nor scabby? quoth he: If thou beest, surely thou lyest not with mee. This caus'd the king, suddenlye, to laugh most heartilye, Till the teares trickled fast downe from his eyes. Then to their supper were they set orderlye, 75 With hot bag-puddings, and good apple-pyes; Nappy ale, good and stale, in a browne bowle, Which did about the board merrilye trowle. Here, quoth the miller, good fellowe, I drinke to thee, And to all 'cuckholds, wherever they bee.'[397] 80 I pledge thee, quotth our king, and thanke thee heartilye For my good welcome in everye degree: And here, in like manner, I drinke to thy sonne. Do then, quoth Richard, and quicke let it come. Wife, quoth the miller, fetch me forth lightfoote, 85 And of his sweetnesse a little we'll taste. A fair ven'son pastye brought she out presentlye. Eate, quoth the miller, but, sir, make no waste. Here's dainty lightfoote! In faith, sayd the king, I never before eat so daintye a thing. 90 I wis, quoth Richard, no daintye at all it is, For we doe eate of it everye day. In what place, sayd our king, may be bought like to this? We never pay pennye for itt, by my fay; From merry Sherwood we fetch it home here; 95 Now and then we make bold with our kings deer. Then I thinke, sayd our king, that it is venison. Eche foole, quoth Richard, full well may know that: Never are wee without two or three in the roof, Very well fleshed, and excellent fat: 100 But, prythee, say nothing wherever thou goe; We would not, for two pence, the king should it knowe. Doubt not, then sayd the king, my promist secresye; The king shall never know more on't for mee. A cupp of lambs-wool[398] they dranke unto him then, 105 And to their bedds they past presentlie. The nobles, next morning, went all up and down, For to seeke out the king in everye towne. At last, at the miller's 'cott,' soone they espy'd him out, As he was mounting upon his faire steede; 110 To whom they came presently, falling down on their knee; Which made the millers heart wofully bleede; Shaking and quaking, before him he stood, Thinking he should have been hang'd, by the rood. The king perceiving him fearfully trembling, 115 Drew forth his sword, but nothing he sed: The miller downe did fall, crying before them all, Doubting the king would have cut off his head. But he his kind courtesye for to requite, Gave him great living, and dubb'd him a knight. 120