Reliques of Ancient English Poetry consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our earlier Poets, (Chiefly of the Lyric kind.) Together with some few of later Date |
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I. |
II. | BOOK II. |
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II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
III. |
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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
BOOK II.
I. ADAM BELL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGH, AND WILLIAM OF CLOUDESLY
—were three noted outlaws, whose skill in archery rendered them formerly as famous in the North of England, as Robin Hobin and his fellows were in the midland counties. Their place of residence was in the forest of Englewood, not far from Carlisle, (called corruptly in the ballad English-wood, whereas Engle, or Ingle-wood signifies Wood for firing.) At what time they lived does not appear. The author of the common ballad on “The pedigree, education, and marriage, of Robin Hood,” makes them contemporary with Robin Hood's father, in order to give him the honour of beating them: viz.
And he shot in a lusty long-bow
Two north-country miles and an inch at a shot,
As the Pindar of Wakefield does know:
And William a Clowdéslee
To shoot with our Forester for forty mark;
And our Forester beat them all three.
Collect. of Old Ballads. 1727. 1 vol. p. 67.
This seems to prove that they were commonly thought to have lived before the popular Hero of Sherwood.
Our northern archers were not unknown to their southern countrymen, their excellence at the long-bow is often alluded to by our ancient poets. Shakespeare, in his comedy of “Much adoe about nothing,” Act 1. makes Benedicke confirm his resolves of not yielding to love, by this protestation, “If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat , and shoot at me, and he that hits me, let him be clapt on the shoulder and called Adam:” meaning Adam Bell, as Theobald rightly observes, who refers to one or two other passages in our old poets wherein he is mentioned. The Oxford editor has also well conjectured that “Abraham Cupid” in Romeo and Juliet, A. 2. s. 1. should be “Adam Cupid,” in allusion to our archer. Ben Johnson has mentioned Clym o' the Clough in his Alchemist, Act 1. sc. 2. And Sir William Davenant, in a mock poem of his, called “The long vacation in London,” describes the Attorneys and Proctors, as making matches to meet in Finsbury fields.
“Where arrowes stick with mickle pride; . . . .
“Like ghosts of Adam Bell and Clymme.
“Sol sets for fear they'l shoot at him.”
Works, p. 291. fol. 1673.
I have only to add further concerning the principal Hero of this Ballad, that the Bells were noted rogues in the North so late as the time of Q. Elizabeth. See in Rymer's Fædera, a letter from lord William Howard to some of the officers of state, wherein he mentions them.
As for the following stanzas, they will be judged from the style, orthography, and numbers, to be very ancient: they are given from an old black-letter quarto, Imprinted at London in Lothburye by Wyllyam Copland (no date):
Part the First.
Amonge the levès grene,
Wheras men hunt east and west
Wyth bowes and arrowes kene;
Suche sightes hath ofte bene sene;
As by thre yemen of the north countrèy,
By them it is I meane.
The other Clym of the Clough,
The thyrd was William of Cloudesly,
An archer good ynough.
These yemen everychone;
They swore them brethren upon a day,
To Englyshe wood for to gone.
That of myrthe loveth to here:
Two of them were singele men,
The third had a wedded fere.
Muche more than was hys care:
He sayde to hys brethren upon a day,
To Carleil he wold fare;
And with hys chyldren thre.
By my trouth, sayde Adam Bel,
Not by the counsell of me:
And from thys wylde wode wende,
If the justice may you take,
Your lyfe were at an ende.
By pryme to you agayne,
Truste not els, but that I am take,
Or else that I am slayne.
And to Carleil he is gon:
There he knocked at his owne windòwe
Shortlye and anone.
And my chyldren thre?
Lyghtly let in thyne owne husbànde,
Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
And syghed wonderous sore,
Thys place hath ben besette for you
Thys halfe yere and more.
I wold that in I were:
Now fetche us meate and drynke ynoughe,
And let us make good chere.
Lyke a true wedded wyfe;
And pleased hym with that she had,
Whome she loved as her lyfe.
A lytle besyde the fyre,
Whych Wyllyam had found of charytyè
More than seven yere.
Evel mote she spede therefoore;
For she had not set no sote on ground
In seven yere before.
As fast as she could hye:
Thys night is come unto thys town
Wyllyam of Cloudeslyè.
And so was the shirife also:
Thou shalt not trauaill hither, dame, for nought,
Thy meed thou shalt have or thou go.
Of scarlate, and of graine:
She toke the gyft, and home she wente,
And couched her doune agayne.
In all the haste they can;
And came thronging to Wyllyames house,
As fast as they might gone.
About on every syde:
Wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes,
That they ther-ward they hyed.
And loked all aboute,
She was ware of the justice and shirife bothe,
Wyth a full great route.
Ever wo may thou be!
Goe into my chamber, husband, she sayd,
Swete Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
Hys bow and hys chyldren thre,
And wente into hys strongest chamber,
Where he thought surest to be.
Took a pollaxe in her hande:
He shal be deade that here commeth in
Thys dore, whyle I may stand.
That was of trusty tre,
He smot the justise on the brest,
That hys arowe brest in three.
Thys day thy cote dyd on!
If it had ben no better then myne,
It had gone nere thy bone.
Thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro.
A curse on hys hart, sayd fair Alyce,
That my husband councelleth so.
Syth it wyll no better be,
And brenne we therin William, he saide,
Hys wyfe and chyldren thre.
The fyre flew up on hye:
Alas! then cryed fayre Alice,
I se we here shall dy.
That was in hys chamber hie,
And wyth shetes let downe his wyfe,
And eke hys chyldren thre.
My wyfe and my chyldren thre:
For Christès love do them no harme,
But wreke you all on me.
Tyll hys arrowes were all agoe,
And the fyre so fast upon hym fell,
That hys bowstryng brent in two.
Good Wyllyam of Cloudeslè:
Than was he a wofull man, and sayde,
Thys is a cowardes death to me.
With my sworde in the route to renne,
Then here among myne enemyes wode
Thus cruelly to bren.
And among them all he ran,
Where the people were most in prece,
He smot downe many a man.
So fersly on them he ran:
Then they threw wyndowes, and dores on him,
And so toke that good yemàn.
And in depe dongeon cast:
Now Cloudeslè, sayd the hye justice,
Thou shalt be hanged in hast.
Now shal I for the make;
And the gates of Carleil shal be shutte:
No man shal come in therat.
Nor yet shal Adam Bell,
Though they came with a thousand mo,
Nor all the devels in hell.
To the gates first gan he gon,
And commaundeth to be shut full close
Lightilè everychone.
As fast as he coulde hye;
A payre of new gallous there he set up
Besyde the pyllorye.
“What meaneth that gallow-tre?”
They sayde to hange a good yeamàn,
Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
And kept fayre Alyces swyne;
Oft he had seene Cloudeslè in the wodde,
And geuend hym there to dyne.
And lightly to the woode dyd gone;
There met he with these wightye yemen
Shortly and anone.
Ye tary here all to longe;
Cloudeslè is taken, and dampned to death,
All readye for to honge.
That ever we see thys daye!
He had better with us have taryed,
So ofte as we dyd hym praye.
Under the shadowes grene,
And have kepte both hym and us in reste,
Out of trouble and teene.
A great hart sone had he slayne:
Take that, chylde, he sayde, to thy dynner,
And bryng me myne arrowe agayne.
Tary we no lenger here;
We shall hym borowe by God his grace,
Though we bye it full dere.
In a mery mornyng of maye.
Here is a fyt of Cloudeslye,
And another is for to saye.
Part the Second.
All in the mornyng tyde,
They founde the gates shut them untyll
About on every syde.
That ever we were made men!
These gates be shut so wonderous wel,
We may not come here in.
Wyth a wyle we wyl us in bryng;
Let us saye we be messengers,
Streyght come nowe from our king.
Now let us wysely werke,
We wyl saye we have the kynges seales;
I holde the porter no clerke.
With strokes great and strong:
The porter herde suche noyse therat,
And to the gate he throng.
That maketh all thys dinne?
We be tow messengers, sayde Clim of the Clough,
Be come ryght from our kyng.
To the justice we must it bryng;
Let us in our message to do,
That we were agayne to the kyng.
Be hym that dyed on a tre,
Tyll a false thefe be hanged up,
Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
And swore by Mary fre,
And if that we stande long wythout,
Lyk a these honge thou shalt be.
What, Lurden, art thou wode?
The porter went it had ben so,
And lyghtly dyd off hys hode.
For that ye shall come in.
He opened the gate full shortlye;
An euyl openyng for him.
Therof we are full faine;
But Christ he knowes, that harowed hell,
How we shall com out agayne.
Ryght wel then shoulde we spede,
Then might we come out wel ynough
When we se tyme and nede.
And wrange hys necke in two,
And cast hym in a depe dongeon,
And toke hys keys hym fro.
Se brother the keys are here,
The worst porter to merry Carleile
The have had thys hundred yere.
Into the towne wyll we go,
For to delyuer our dere brothèr,
That lyeth in care and wo.
And loked theyr stringes were round ,
They beset that stound.
A paire of new galowes thei see,
And the justice with a quest of squyers,
Had judged theyr fere to de.
Fast bound both fote and hand;
And a stronge rop about hys necke,
All readye for to hange.
Cloudeslès clothes should he have,
To take the measure of that yemàn,
Therafter to make hys grave.
As betweyne thys and pryme,
He that maketh thys grave for me
Hymselfe may lye therin.
I shall the hange with my hande.
Full wel herd this his brethren two,
There styll as they dyd stande.
And saw hys brethren twaine
Redy the justice for to slaine.
Yet hope I well to fare,
If I might have my handes at wyll
Ryght lytle wolde I care.
To Clym of the Clough so free,
Brother, se ye marke the justyce wel;
Lo! yonder ye may him se:
Strongly wyth arrowe kene;
A better shote in mery Carleile
Thys seven yere was not sene.
Of no man had the dread;
The one hyt the justice, the other the sheryfe,
That both theyr sides gan blede.
When the justice fell to the grounde,
And the sherife fell hym by;
Eyther had his deathes wounde.
They durst no lenger abyde:
There lyghtly they loosed Cloudeslè,
Where he with ropes lay tyde.
Hys axe fro hys hand he wronge,
On eche syde he smote them downe,
Hym thought he taryed to long.
Thys daye let us lyve and de,
If ever you have nede, as I have now,
The same shall you finde by me.
Theyr stringes were of silke ful sure,
That they kept the stretes on every side;
That batayle did long endure.
Lyke hardy men and bolde,
Many a man to the ground they thrue,
And many a herte made colde.
Men preced to them full fast,
They drew theyr swordès then anone,
And theyr bowes from them cast.
Wyth swordes and bucklers round;
By that it was myd of the day,
They made mani a wound.
And the belles bacwàrd dyd ryng,
Many a woman sayde, Alas!
And many theyr handes dyd wryng.
Wyth hym a ful great route:
These yemen dred hym full sore,
Of theyr lyves they stode in doute.
With a pollaxe in hys hande;
Many a strong man wyth him was,
There in that stowre to stande.
Hys bucler he brast in two,
Full many a yeman with great evyll,
Alas! they cryed for wo.
Kepe we the gates fast, they bad,
That these traytours therout not go.
For so fast they downe were layde,
Were gotten without, abraide.
Myne office I here forsake,
And yf you do by my counsell
A new porter do ye make.
And bad them well to thryve,
And all that letteth any good yeman
To come and comfort his wyfe.
And lyghtly, as lefe on lynde;
The lough and be mery in theyr mode,
Theyr foes were ferr behynd.
Under the trusty tre,
There they found bowes full good,
And arrowes full great plentye.
And Clym of the Clough so fre,
I would we were in mery Carleile,
Before that fayre meynè.
And eate and dranke full well.
A second fyt of the wightye yeomen,
Another I wyll you tell.
3. Part the Third.
Under the green-wode tre,
They thought they herd a woman wepe,
But her they mought not se.
That ever I sawe thys day!
For nowe is my dere husband slayne:
Alas! and wel-a-way!
Or with eyther of them twayne,
To shew to them what him befell,
My hart were out of payne.
Lookt under the grene wood linde,
He was ware of his wife, and chyldren three,
Full wo in harte and mynde.
Under this trusti tre:
I wende yesterday, by swete saynt John,
Thou shulde me never have se.
My harte is out of wo.”
Dame, he sayde, be mery and glad,
And thanke my brethren two.
I-wis it is no bote:
The meate, that we must supp withall,
It runneth yet fast on fote.
These noble archares thre;
Eche of them slew a hart of greece,
The best that they cold se.
Sayde Wyllyam of Cloudeslye;
By cause ye so bouldly stode by me
When I was slayne full nye.
Wyth suche meate as they had;
And thanked God of ther fortune:
They were both mery and glad.
Certayne wythouten lease,
Cloudeslè sayd, We wyll to our kyng,
To get us a charter of peace.
In a nunnery here besyde;
My tow sonnes shall wyth her go,
And there they shall abyde.
For hym have I no care:
And he shall breng you worde agayn,
How that we do fare.
As fast as they myght he,
Tyll they came to the kynge's pallàce,
Where they woulde nedes be.
Unto the pallace gate,
Of no man wold they aske no leave,
But boldly went in therat.
Of no man had they dreade:
The porter came after, and dyd them call,
And with them gan to chyde.
I pray you tell to me:
You myght thus make offycers shent:
Good syrs, of whence be ye?
Certayne withouten lease;
And hether we be come to our kyng
To get us a charter of peace.
As it was the lawe of the lande,
The kneled downe without lettyng,
And eche held up his hand.
That ye wyll graunt us grace;
For we have slayne your fat falow dere
In many a sondry place.
Anone that you tell me?
They sayd, Adam Bell, Clim of the Clough,
And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
That men have tolde of to me?
Here to God I make an avowe,
Ye shal be hanged all thre.
As I am kynge of this lande.
He commandeth his officers every one,
Fast on them to lay hande.
And arested them all thre:
So may I thryve, sayd Adam Bell,
Thys game lyketh not me.
That yee graunt us grace,
Insomuche as frelè to you we comen,
As frelè fro you to passe,
Tyll we be out of your place;
And yf we lyve this hundreth yere,
We wyll aske you no grace.
Ye shall be hanged all thre.
That were great pitye, then sayd the quene,
If any grace myght be.
To be your wedded wyfe,
The fyrst boone that I wold aske,
Ye would graunt it me belyfe:
Then, good lorde, graunt it me.
Now aske it, madam, sayd the kynge,
And graunted it shall be.
These yemen graunt ye me.
Madame, ye myght have asked a boone,
That shuld have been worth them all three.
Parkes and forestes plentè.
But none soe pleasant to my pay, shee sayd;
Nor none so lefe to me.
Your askyng graunted shal be;
But I had lever have geven you
Good market townes thre.
And sayde, Lord, gramarcyè
I dare undertake for them,
That true men they shal be.
That comfort they may se.
I graunt you grace, then sayd our king,
Washe, felos, and to meate go ye.
Certayne without lesynge,
There came messengers out of the north
With letters to our kyng.
They knelt downe on theyr kne;
Sayd, Lord, your officers grete you well,
Of Carleile in the north cuntrè.
And my sherife also?
Syr, they be slayne without leasynge,
And many an officer mo.
Anone thou tell to me?
“Adam Bell, and Clime of the Clough,
And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.”
My hart is wonderous fore;
I had lever than a thousande pounde,
I had knowne of thys before:
And that forthynketh me:
But had I knowne all thys before,
They had been hanged all thre.
Himselfe he red it tho,
And founde how these outlawes had slain
Thre hundred men and mo:
And the mayre of Carleile towne;
Of all the constables and catchipolles
Alyve were scant left one:
And the sergeaunte of the law,
And forty fosters of the fe,
These outlawes had yslaw:
Of all they chose the best;
So perelous out-lawes, as they were,
Walked not by easte nor west.
In harte he syghed sore:
Take up the tables anone he bad,
For I may eat no more.
To the buttes wyth hym to go:
I wyll se these felowes shote, he sayd,
In the north have wrought this wo.
And the quenes archers also;
So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen;
With them they thought to go.
For to assay theyr hande;
There was no shote these yemen shot,
That any prycke myght stand.
By him that for me dyed,
I hold hym never no good archar,
That shoteth at buttes so wyde.
I pray thee tell to me?”
At suche a but, syr, he sayd,
As men use in my countrè.
With his two brethèrene:
There they set up two hasell roddes
Full twenty score betwene.
That yonder wande cleveth in two.
Nor none that can so do.
Or that I farther go.
Cloudesly with a bearyng arowe
Clave the wand in two.
For sothe that ever I se.
And yet for your love, sayd Wyllyam,
I wyll do more maystery.
He is to me full deare;
I wyll hym tye to a stake;
All shall se, that be here;
And go syxe score hym fro,
And I my selfe with a brode aròw
Shall cleve the apple in two.
By hym that dyed on a tre,
But yf thou do not, as thou hest sayde,
Hanged shalt thou be.
In syght that men may se,
By all the sayntes that be in heaven,
I shall hange you all thre.
That wyll I never forsake.
And there even before the kynge
In the earth he drove a stake:
And bad hym stand styll thereat;
And turned the childes face him fro,
Because he should not sterte.
And then his bowe he bent:
Syxe score paces they were out mete,
And thether Cloudeslè went.
Hys bowe was great and longe,
He set that arrowe in his bowe,
That was both styffe and stronge.
That they still wold stand,
For he that shoteth for such a wager,
Behoveth a stedfast hand.
That his lyfe saved myght be,
And whan he made hym redy to shote,
There was many weeping ee.
His sonne he did not nee.
Over Gods forbode, sayde the kinge,
That thou shold shote at me.
And my bowe shalt thou bere,
And over all the north countrè
I make the chyfe rydère.
By God, and by my fay;
Come feche thy payment when thou wylt,
No man shall say the nay.
Of clothyng, and of fe:
And thy two brethren, yemen of my chambre,
For they are so semely to se.
Of my wyne seller he shall be;
And when he commeth to mans estate,
Shal better avaunced be.
Me longeth her sore to se:
She shall be my chefe gentlewoman,
To governe my nurserye.
To some byshop wyl we wend,
Of all the synnes, that we have done,
To be assoyld at his hand.
As fast as they might he ;
And after came and dwelled with the kynge,
And dyed good men all thre.
God send them eternall blysse.
And all, that with a hand-bowe shoteth,
That of heven they never mysse.
Bottles formerly were of leather; though perhaps a wooden bottle might be here meant. It is still a diversion in Scotland to hang up a cat in a small cask or firkin, half filled with soot: and then a parcel of clowns on horseback try to beat out the ends of it, in order to shew their dexterity in escaping before the contents fall upon them.
So Ascham in his Toxophilus gives a precept; “The Stringe must be rounde:” (p. 149. Ed. 1761.) otherwise, we may conclude from mechanical principles, the Arrow will not fly true.
II. THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH LOVE.
The Grave-digger's song in Hamlet, A. 5. is taken from three stanzas of the following poem, though greatly altered and disguised, as the same were corrupted by the ballad-singers of Shakespeare's time; or perhaps so designed by the poet himself, the better to paint the character of an illiterate clown. The original is preserved among Surrey's Poems, and is attributed to Lord Vaux, by George Gascoigne, who tells us, it “was thought by some to be made upon his death-bed;” a popular error which he laughs at. (See his Epist. to Yong Gent. prefixed to his Posies 1575. 4to.) It is also ascribed to Lord Vaux in a manuscript copy preserved in the British Musuem . This Lord was remarkable for his skill in drawing feigned manners, &c. for so I understand an ancient writer. “The Lord Vaux his commendation lyeth chiefly in the facilitie of his meetre, and the aptnesse of his descriptions such as he taketh upon him to make, namely in sundry of his Songs, wherein he showeth the counterfait action very lively and pleasantly.” Arte of Eng. Poesie, 1589. p. 51. See another Song by this Poet in vol. 2. p. 45.
In youth that I thought swete:
Methinkes they are not mete.
My fansies all are fled;
And tract of time begins to weave
Gray heares upon my hed.
Hath clawde me with his crowch,
And lusty ‘Youthe’ awaye he leapes,
As there had bene none such.
Me, as she did before:
My hand and pen are not in plight,
As they have bene of yore.
‘All’ youthly idle rime;
And day by day to me she cries,
Leave off these toyes in tyme.
The surrowes in my face
Say, Limping age will ‘lodge’ him now,
Where youth must geve him place.
To me I se him ride,
The cough, the cold, the gasping breath,
Doth bid me to provide
And eke a shrowding shete,
A house of clay for to be made,
For such a guest most mete.
That knoles the carefull knell,
And bids me leave my ‘wearye’ warke,
Ere nature me compell.
That youth doth laugh to scorne,
Of me that ‘shall bee cleane’ forgot,
As I had ‘ne'er’ been borne.
Whose badge I long did weare:
To them I yelde the wanton cup,
That better may it beare.
By whose balde signe I know,
‘What’ youthful yeres did sow.
These croked cares had wrought,
And shipped me into the lande,
From whence I first was brought.
Have ye none other trust:
As ye of claye were cast by kinde,
So shall ye ‘turne’ to dust.
Harl. MSS. num. 1703. §25. The readings gathered from that copy are distinguished here by inverted commas. The text is printed from the “Songs, &c. of the Earl of Surrey and others. 1557. 4to.”
III. JEPHTHAH JUDGE OF ISRAEL.
In Shakespeare's Hamlet, A. II. sc. 7. the Hero of the Play takes occasion to banter Polonius with some scraps of an old Ballad, which has never appeared yet in any collection: for which reason, as it is but short, it will not perhaps be unacceptable to the Reader; who will also be diverted with the pleasant absurdities of the composition. It was retrieved from utter oblivion by a lady, who wrote it down from memory as she had formerly heard it sung by her father. I am indebted for it to the friendship of Mr. Steevens.
The Banter of Hamlet is as follows:“
“O Jephta, Judge of Israel,” what a treasure hadst thou?
Polonius.
What a treasure had he, my Lord?
Ham.
Why, “One faire daughter, and no more, the which he loved passing well.”
Pol.
Still on, my daughter.
Ham.
Am not I i'th' right, old Jephta?
Polon.
If you call me Jephta, my Lord; I have a daughter, that I love passing well.
Ham.
Nay, that followes not.
Polon.
What followes then, my Lord?
Ham.
Why, “As by lot, God wot:” and then you know, “It came to passe, As most like it was.” The first row of the Pont chanson will shew you more.”
First fol. Edit. p. 263.
Jephta was judge of Israel?
He had one only daughter and no mo,
The which he loved passing well:
And, as by lott,
God wot,
It so came to pass,
As Gods will was,
That great wars there should be,
And none should be chosen chief but he.
And chieftain of the company,
A solemn vow to God he made;
If he returnd with victory,
At his return
To burn
The first live thing,
[OMITTED]
That should meet with him then,
Off his house, when he shoud return agen.
And he returnd with victory;
His dear and only daughter first of all
Came to meet her father foremostly:
And all the way
She did play
On tabret and pipe
Full many a stripe,
With note so high,
For joy that her father is come so nigh.
Coming on most foremostly,
He wrung his hands, and tore his hair,
And cryed out most piteously;
Oh! its thou, said he,
That have brought me very low,
That I know not what to do.
The which must be replenished:
[OMITTED]
“What thou hast spoke
Do not revoke:
What thou hast said,
Be not affraid;
Altho' it be I;
Keep promises to God on high.
That I may go to the wilderness,
Three months there with my friends to stay;
There to bewail my virginity;
And let there be,
Said she,
Some two or three
Young maids with me.”
So he sent her away,
For to mourn, for to mourn, till her dying day.
IV. A SONG TO THE LUTE IN MUSICKE.
Shakespear has made this sonnet the subject of some pleasant ridicule in his Romeo and Juliet, A. IV. Sc. 5. where he introduces Peter putting this Question to the Musicians.
“
. . . . why “Silver Sound”? why “Musicke with her silver sound?” what say you, Simon Catling?
1. Mus.
Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Pet.
Pretty! what say you, Hugh Rebecke?
2. Mus.
I say, silver sound, because Musicians sound for silver.
Pet.
Pretty too! what say you, James Sound-post.
3. Mus.
Faith, I know not what to say.
Pet.
. . . I will say for you: It is “Musicke with her silver sound,” because Musicians have no gold for sounding.”
First folio Ed. p. 73.
This ridicule is not so much levelled at the song itself (which for the time it was written is not inelegant) as at those forced and unnatural explanations often given by us painful editors and expositors of ancient authors.
This copy is printed from an old quarto MS in the Cotton Library, [Vesp. A. 25.] entitled “Divers things of Hen. viij's time;” with some corrections from The Paradise of Dainty Devises, 1596.
And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse,
There musicke with her silver sound
With spede is wont to send redresse:
Of trobled mynds, in every sore,
Swete musicke hathe a salve in store.
In woe yt cheres our hevy sprites;
Be-strawghted heads relyef hath founde,
By musickes pleasaunt swete delightes:
Our senses all, what shall I say more?
Are subjecte unto musicks lore.
The lyfe, the soul therein doth joye:
For, as the Romayne poet sayes,
In seas, whom pyrats would destroy,
A dolphin saved from death most sharpe
Arion playing on his harpe.
Even as the sterne dothe rule the shippe!
O musicke, whom the gods assinde
To comforte manne, whom cares would nippe!
Sense thow both man and beste doest move,
What beste ys he, wyll the disprove?
V. KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR-MAID
—is a story often alluded to by our old Dramatic Writers. Shakespear in his Romeo and Juliet, A. II. Sc. 1. makes Mercutio say,
—“Her [Venus's] purblind son and heir,“Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so true,
“When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid.”
As the 13th Line of the following ballad seems here particularly alluded to, it is not improbable but Shakespeare wrote it shot so trim, which the players or printers, not perceiving the allusion, might alter to true. The former, as being the more humorous expression, seems most likely to have come from the mouth of Mercutio.
In the 2d Part of Hen. IV. A. 5. Sc. 3. Falstaff is introduced affectedly saying to Pistoll,
“O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news?“Let king Cophetua know the truth thereof.”
These lines Dr. Warburton thinks were taken from an old bombast play of King Cophetua. No such play is, I believe, now to be found; but it does not therefore follow
It is probably in allusion to the same play that Ben Jonson says in his Comedy of Every man in his humour, A. 3. sc. 4.
“I have not the heart to devour thee, an' I might be made as rich as King Cophetua.” At least there is no mention of King Cophetua's riches in the present ballad, which is the oldest I have met with on the subject.
It is printed from Rich. Johnson's “Crown Garland of Goulden Roses.” 1612. 12mo. (where it is intitled simply, A Song of a Beggar and a King:) corrected by another copy.
A princely wight did raine,
Who had to name Cophetua,
As poets they did faine:
From natures lawes he did decline,
For sure he was not of my mind,
He cared not for women-kinde,
But did them all disdaine.
But, marke, what hapned on a day,
As he out of his window lay,
He saw a beggar all in gray,
The which did cause his paine.
From heaven downe did hie;
He drew a dart and shot at him,
In place where he did lye:
Which soone did pierse him to the quicke,
And when he felt the arrow pricke,
Which in his tender heart did sticke,
He looketh as he would dye.
What sudden chance is this, quoth he,
That I to love must subject be,
Which never thereto would agree,
But still did it defie?
And laid him on his bed,
A thousand heapes of care did runne
Within his troubled head:
For now he meanes to crave her love,
And now he seekes which way to proove
How he his fancie might remoove,
And not this beggar wed.
But Cupid had him so in snare,
That this poor begger must prepare
A salve to cure him of his care,
Or els he would be dead.
He thought for to devise
How he might have her companye,
That so did 'maze his eyes.
In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life;
For surely thou shalt be my wife,
Or else this hand with bloody knife
The Gods shall sure suffice.
Then from his bed he soon arose,
And to his pallace gate he goes;
Full little then this begger knowes
When she the king espies.
The beggers all gan cry:
Vouchsafe to give your charity
Our childrens food to buy.
The king to them his pursse did cast,
And they to part it made great haste;
This silly woman was the last
That after them did hye.
The king he cal'd her back againe,
And unto her he gave his chaine;
And said, With us you shal remaine
Till such time as we dye:
And honoured for my queene;
With thee I meane to lead my life,
As shortly shall be seene:
Our wedding shall appointed be,
And every thing in its degree:
Come on, quoth he, and follow me,
Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.
What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he.
Penelophon , O king, quoth she:
With that she made a lowe courtsèy;
A trim one as I weene.
Unto the king's pallàce:
The king with courteous comly talke
This begger doth imbrace:
The begger blusheth scarlet red,
And straight againe as pale as lead,
But not not a word at all she said,
She was in such amaze.
At last she spake with trembling voyce,
And said, O king, I doe rejoyce
That you wil take me for your choyce,
And my degree's so base.
The king commanded strait
The noblemen both all and some
Upon the queene to wait.
And she behavde herself that day,
As if she had never walkt the way;
She had forgot her gowne of gray,
Which she did weare of late.
The proverbe old is come to passe,
The priest, when he begins his masse,
Forgets that ever clerke he was,
He knowth not his estate.
Though long time fancie-fed,
Compelled by the blinded boy
The begger for to wed:
He that did lovers lookes disdaine,
To do the same was glad and faine,
Or else he would himselfe have slaine,
In storie, as we read.
Disdaine no whit, O lady deere,
But pitty now thy servant heere,
Least that it hap to thee this yeare,
As to that king it did.
During their princely raine;
And in a tombe were buried both,
As writers sheweth plaine.
The lords they tooke it grievously,
The ladies tooke it heavily,
The commons cryed pitiously,
Their death to them was paine.
Their fame did sound so passingly,
That it did pierce the starry sky,
And throughout all the world did flye
To every princes realme.
Shakespeare (who alludes to this ballad in his “Loves Labour lost,” Act IV. Sc. 1.) gives the Begger's name Zenelophon, according to all the old editions: but this seems to be a corruption; for Penelophon, in the text, sounds more like the name of a Woman.—The story of the King and the Beggar is also alluded to in K. Rich. II. Act V. Sc. 7.
VI. TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT THEE
—is supposed to have been originally a Scottish Ballad. The reader here has an ancient copy in the English idiom, with an additional Stanza (the 2d.) never before printed. This curiosity is preserved in the Editor's folio MS. but not without corruptions, which are here removed by the assistance of the Scottish Edit. Shakespear in his Othello, A. 2. has quoted one stanza, with some variations, which are here adopted: The old MS. readings are however given in the margin.
And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold,
That all our cattell are like to spill;
Bell my wife, who loves no strife,
She sayd unto me quietlie,
Rise up, and save cow Crumbockes life,
Man, put thine old cloake about thee.
O Bell, why dost thou flyte ‘and scorne’?
Thou kenst my cloak is very thin:
It is so bare and overworne
A cricke he thereon cannot renn:
Then Ile noe longer borrowe nor lend,
‘For once Ile new appareld bee,
To-morrow Ile to towne and spend,’
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.
She.
Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,
Shee has been alwayes true to the payle,
Still has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow,
And other things she will not fayle;
I wold be loth to see her pine,
Good husband, councell take of mee,
It is not for us to go soe fine,
Then take thine old cloake about thee.
My cloake it was a very good cloake,
Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,
But now it is not worth a groat;
I have had it four and forty yeare:
Sometime it was of cloth in graine,
'Tis now but a sigh-clout as you may see,
It will neither hold out winde nor raine;
Ill have a new cloake about mee.
She.
It is four and fortye yeeres agoe
Since th'one of us the other did ken,
And we have had betwixt us towe
Of children either nine or ten;
Wee have brought them up to women and men;
In the feare of God I trow they bee;
And why wilt thou thyself misken?
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.
He.
O Bell my wife, why dost thou floute!
Now is nowe, and then was then:
Seeke now all the world throughout,
Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen.
They are clad in blacke, greene, yellowe, or ‘gray,’
Soe far above their owne degree:
Once in my life Ile ‘doe as they,’
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.
King Stephen was a worthy peere,
His breeches cost him but a crowne,
He held them sixpence all too deere;
Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne.
He was a wight of high renowne,
And thouse but of a low degree:
Itt's pride that putts the countrye downe,
Then take thine old cloake about thee.
He.
‘Bell my wife she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can;
And oft, to live a quiet life,
I am forced to yield, though Ime good-man:’
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape,
Unlesse he first give oer the plea:
Where I began I now mun leave,
And take mine old cloake about mee.
VII. WILLOW, WILLOW, WILLOW.
It is from the following stanzas that Shakespeare has taken his song of the Willow, in his Othello, A. 4. s. 3. though somewhat varied and applied by him to a female character. He makes Desdemona introduce it in this pathetic and affecting manner,
“She was in love; and he, she lov'd, forsook her,
“And she prov'd mad. She had a Song of Willow.
“An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune;
“And she dyed singing it.”
This is given from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, thus intitled, “A lovers complaint, being forsaken of his “love. To a pleasant tune.”
[Part the First.]
O willow, willow, willow!
With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee:
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland.
Come willow, &c.
I am dead to all pleasure, my true-love is gone;
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
O willow, &c.
She renders me nothing but hate for my love.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
Her heart's hard as marble; she rues not my mone.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
The salt tears fell from him, which drowned his face:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
The salt tears fell from him, which softned the stones.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd!
O willow, &c.
She was borne to be faire; I, to die for her love.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
Sing willow, &c.
My true love rejecting without all regard.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
For women are trothles, and flote in an houre.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
I must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
He that 'plaines of his false love, mine's falser than she.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
A Garland for lovers forsaken most meete.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd!
Part the Second.
O willow, willow, willow!
Against her too cruell, still still I complaine,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd!
O willow, &c.
To suffer the triumph, and joy in my smart:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
A sign of her falsenesse before me doth stand:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
So hang it, friends, ore me in grave where I lye:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
O willow, &c.
Of all that doe knowe her, to blaze her untrue.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
“Here lyes one, drank poyson for potion most sweet.”
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
And carelesly smiles at the sorrowes I prove;
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
Cause once well I loved her, and honoured her name:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
It rays'd my heart lightly, the name of my deare;
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
O willow, &c.
It now brings me anguish, then brought me reliefe.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, willow, willow!
Thou dost loath me, I love thee, though cause of my death.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
VIII. SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE.
This ballad is quoted in Shakespeare's second Part of Henry IV. A. 2. s. 4. The subject of it is taken from the ancient romance of K. Arthur (commonly called Morte Arthur) being a poetical translation of Chap. cviii, cix, cx, in Pt. 1st, as they stand in Ed. 1634. 4to. In the older Editions the Chapters are differently numbered.—This song is given from a printed copy, corrected in part by the folio MS.
In the same play of 2 Hen. IV. Silence hums a scrap of one of the old ballads of Robin Hood. It is taken from the following stanza of Robin Hood and the Pindar of Wakefield.
Twas Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John:
With that they espy'd the jolly Pindàr
As he sate under a thorne.
That ballad may be found on every stall, and therefore is not here reprinted.
And was approved king,
By force of armes great victoryes wanne,
And conquest home did bring.
With fifty good and able
Knights, that resorted unto him,
And were of his round table:
Wherto were many prest,
Wherein some knights did then excell
And far surmount the rest.
Who was approved well,
He for his deeds and feates of armes,
All others did excell.
In play, and game, and sportt,
He said he wold goe prove himselfe
In some adventrous sort.
And met a damsell faire,
Who told him of adventures great,
Whereto he gave good eare.
For that cause came I hither.
Thou seemst, quoth she, a knight full good,
And I will bring thee thither,
That now is of great fame:
Therfore tell me what wight thou art,
And what may be thy name.
Quoth she, it likes me than:
Here dwelles a knight who never was
Yet matcht with any man:
And four, that he did wound;
Knights of king Arthurs court they be,
And of his table round.
And also to a tree,
Whereon a copper bason hung,
And many shields to see.
And Tarquin soon he spyed:
Who drove a horse before him fast,
Whereon a knight lay tyed.
Bring me that horse-load hither,
And lay him downe, and let him rest;
Weel try our force together:
Soe far as thou art able,
Done great despite and shame unto
The knights of the Round Table.
Quoth Tarquin speedilye,
Both thee and all thy fellowship
I utterly defye.
Defend thee by and by.
They sett their speares unto their steeds,
And each att other flye.
As though there had been thunder)
And strucke them each amidst their shields,
Wherewith they broke in sunder.
The knights were both astound:
To avoyd their horses they made haste
And light upon the ground.
Their swords they drew out than,
With mighty strokes most eagerlye
Eache at the other ran.
For breath they both did stand,
And leaning on their swordes awhile,
Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,
Say on, quoth Lancelot tho.
Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight
That ever I did know;
Soe that thou be not hee,
I will deliver all the rest,
And eke accord with thee.
But sith it must be soe,
What knight is that thou hatest thus?
I pray thee to me show.
He slew my brother deere;
Him I suspect of all the rest:
I would I had him here.
I am Lancelot du Lake,
Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;
King Hauds son of Schuwake;
Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho,
One of us two shall end our lives
Before that we do go.
Then welcome shalt thou bee:
Wherfore see thou thyself defend,
For now defye I thee.
Like unto wild boares rushing,
And with their swords and shields they ran
At one another slashing:
Tarquin began to yield;
For he gave backe for wearinesse,
And lowe did beare his shield.
He leapt upon him then,
He pull'd him downe upon his knee,
And rushing off his helm,
And, when he had soe done,
From prison threescore knights and four
Delivered everye one.
IX. CORYDON'S FAREWELL TO PHILLIS
—is an attempt to paint a lover's irresolution, but so poorly executed, that it would not have been admitted into this collection, if it had not been quoted in Shakespeare's Twelfth-night, A. 2. sc. 3.—It is found in a little ancient miscellany intitled, “The golden Garland of princely “delights.” 12mo. bl. let.
In the same scene of the Twelfth Night, Sir Toby sings a scrap of an old ballad, which is preserved in the Pepys Collection. [Vol. 1. p. 33. 496.] but as it is not only a poor dull performance, but also very long, it will be sufficient here to give the first stanza:
Of reputation great by fame;
He took to wife a faire womàn,
Susanna she was callde by name:
A woman fair and vertuous;
Lady, lady:
Why should we not of her learn thus
To live godly?
If this song of Corydon, &c. has not more merit, it is at least an evil of less magnitude.
Mine eyes do shew, my life is almost done.
Nay I will never die, so long as I can spie
There be many mo, though that she doe goe,
There be many mo, I fear not:
Why then let her goe, I care not.
I will not spend more time in wooing you:
But I will seek elsewhere, if I may find love there:
Shall I bid her goe? what and if I doe?
Shall I bid her goe and spare not?
O no, no, no, I dare not.
Sweet, kiss me once; sweet kisses time beguile:
I have no power to move. How now am I in love?
Wilt thou needs be gone? Go then, all is one.
Wilt thou needs be gone? Oh, hie thee!
Nay stay, and do no more deny me.
Bids oft adieu to her, that holds my heart.
But seeing I must lose thy love, which I did choose,
Goe thy way for me, since that may not be.
Goe thy ways for me. But whither?
Goe, oh, but where I may come thither.
She is as fair, as she is cruel-hearted.
She would not be intreated, with prayers oft repeated.
If she come no more, shall I die therefore?
If she come no more, what care I?
Faith, let her goe, or come, or tarry.
X. GERNUTUS THE JEW OF VENICE.
In the “Life of Pope Sixtus V. translated from the Ialian of Greg. Leti, by the Rev. Mr. Farneworth, folio,” is a remarkable passage to the following effect:
“It was reported in Rome, that Drake had taken and plundered St. Domingo in Hispaniola, and carried off an immense booty. This account came in a private letter to Paul Secchi, a very considerable merchant in the city, who had large concerns in those parts, which he had insured. Upon receiving this news, he sent for the insurer Sampson Ceneda, a Jew, and acquainted him with it. The Jew, whose interest it was to have such a report thought false, gave many reasons why it could not possibly be true, and at last worked himself into such a passion, that he said, I'll lay you a pound of my flesh it is a lye. Secchi, who was of a fiery hot temper, replied, I'll lay you a thousand crowns against a pound of your flesh that it is true. The Jew accepted the wager, and articles were immediately executed betwixt them, That if Secchi won, he should himself cut the flesh with a sharp knife
The Editor of that book is of opinion, that the scene between Shylock and Antonio in the Merchant of Venice is taken from this incident. But Mr. Warton, in his ingenious “Observations on the Faerie Queen, vol. 1. page 128.” has referred it to the following ballad. Mr. Warton thinks this ballad was written before Shakespeare's play, as being not so circumstantial, and having more of the nakedness of an original. Besides, it differs from the play in many circumstances, which a meer copyist, such as we may suppose the ballad-maker to be, would hardly have given himself the trouble to alter. Indeed he expressly informs us, that he had his story from the Italian writers.
See the Connoisseur, Vol. 1. No. 16.After all, one would be glad to know what authority Leti had for the foregoing fact, or at least for connecting it with the taking of St. Domingo by Drake; for this expedition did not happen till 1585, and it is very certain that a play of the Jewe, “representing the greedinesse of worldly chusers, and bloody minds of usurers,” had been exhibited at the play-house called the Bull, before the year 1579, being mentioned in Steph. Gosson's Schoole of abuse , which was printed in that year.
As for Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, the earliest edition known of it is in quarto 1600; though it had been exhibited before the year 1598, being mentioned together with eleven other of his plays in Meres's Wits Treasury, &c. 1598. 12mo. fol. 282.
The following is printed from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection , intitled, “A new Song, shewing the crueltie of Gernutus, a Jewe, who lending to a merchant an hundred crowns, would have a pound of his fleshe, because he could not pay him at the time appointed. To the tune of Black and yellow.”
The First Part.
A cruel Jew did dwell,
Which lived all on usurie,
As Italian writers tell.
Which never thought to dye,
Nor ever yet did any good
To them in streets that lie.
That liveth many a day,
Yet never once doth any good,
Until men will him slay.
That lyeth in a whoard;
Which never can do any good,
Till it be spread abroad.
He cannot sleep in rest,
For feare the thiefe will him pursue
To plucke him from his nest.
How to deceive the poore;
His mouth is almost ful of mucke,
Yet still he gapes for more.
For every weeke a penny,
Yet bring a pledge, that is double worth,
If that you will have any.
Or else you loose it all:
This was the living of the wife,
Her cow she did it call.
A marchant of great fame,
Which being distressed in his need,
Unto Gernutus came:
For twelve month and a day,
To lend to him an hundred crownes:
And he for it would pay
And pledges he should have.
No, (quoth the Jew with flearing lookes)
Sir, aske what you will have.
For one year you shall pay;
You may doe me as good a turne,
Before my dying day.
For to be talked long:
You shall make me a bond, quoth he,
That shall be large and strong:
Of your owne fleshe a pound.
If you agree, make you the bond,
And here is a hundred crownes.
And so the bond was made.
When twelve month and a day drew on
That backe it should be payd,
And money came not in;
Which way to take, or what to doe
To thinke he doth begin:
With cap and bended knee,
And sayde to him, Of curtesie
I pray you beare with mee.
The money for to pay:
And little good the forfeyture
Will doe you, I dare say.
Commaund it to your minde:
In thinges of bigger waight then this
You shall me ready finde.
Gernutus doth not slacke
To get a sergiant presently;
And clapt him on the backe:
And sued his bond withall;
And when the judgement day was come,
For judgement he did call.
With many a weeping eye,
For other means they could not find,
But he that day must dye.
“Of the Jews crueltie; setting foorth the mercifulnesse of the Judge towards the Marchant. To the tune of Blacke and yellow.”
The Second Part
Five hundred for to pay;
And some a thousand, two or three,
Yet still he did denay.
They offered, him to save.
Gernutus sayd, I will no gold,
My forfeite I will have.
And that shall be my hire.
Let me of you desire
As yet you let him live:
Do so, and lo! an hundred crownes
To thee here will I give.
For this it shall be tride,
For I will have my pound of fleshe
From under his right side.
His crueltie to see,
For neither friend nor foe could helpe
But he must spoyled bee.
With whetted blade in hand ,
To spoyle the bloud of innocent,
By forfeit of his bond.
In him the deadly blow:
Stay (quoth the judge) thy crueltie;
I charge thee to do so.
Which is of flesh a pound:
See that thou shed no drop of bloud,
Nor yet the man confound.
Thou here shalt hanged be:
Likewise of flesh see that thou cut
No more than longes to thee:
To the value of a mite,
Thou shalt be hanged presently,
As is both law and right.
And wotes not what to say;
Quoth he at last, Ten thousand crownes,
I will that he shall pay;
The judge doth answere make;
You shall not have a penny given;
Your forfeyture now take.
But for to have his owne.
No, quoth the judge, doe as you list,
Thy judgement shall be showne.
Or cancell me your bond.
O cruell judge, then quoth the Jew,
That doth against me stand!
He biddeth them fare-well.
‘Then’ all the people prays'd the Lord,
That ever this heard tell.
For trueth I dare well say,
That many a wretch as ill as hee
Doth live now at this day;
Of many a wealthey man,
And for to trap the innocent
Deviseth what they can.
And every Christian too,
And send to them like sentence eke
That meaneth so to do.
Since the first Edition of this book was printed,
the Editor hath had reason to believe that both Shakespeare
and the Author of this Ballad, are indebted for their Story of the Jew (however they came by it) to
an Italian Novel, which was first printed at Milan in the
year 1554, in a book intitled, Il Pecorone, nel quale si
That Shakespeare had his Plot from the Novel itself, is evident from his having some incidents from it, which are not found in the Ballad: And I think it will also be found that he borrowed from the Ballad some hints, that were not suggested by the Novel. (See above, Pt. 2d. ver. 25, &c. where instead of that spirited description of the whetted blade, &c. the Prose Narrative coldly says, “The Jew had prepared a razor, &c.” See also some other passages in the same piece.) This however is spoken with diffidence, as I have at present before me only the Abridgment of the Novel which Mr. Johnson has given us at the End of his Commentary on Shakespeare's Play. The Translation of the Italian Story at large, is not easy to be met with, having I believe never been published, though it was printed some years ago with this title,—“The Novel, from which the Merchant of Venice written by Shakespear is taken, translated from the Italian. To which is added a Translation of a Novel from the Decamerone of Boccaccio. London, Printed for M. Cooper. 1755. 8vo.”
Her Cow, &c. seems to have suggested to Shakespeare Shylock's argument for usury taken from Jacob's management of Laban's sheep, Act 1. to which Antonio replies,
“Or are your gold and silver Ewes and rams?
“I cannot tell, I make it breed as fast.”
The passage in Shakespeare bears so strong a resemblance to this, as to render it probable that the one suggested the other.
See Act IV. sc. 2. Bass.“Why doest thou whet thy knife so earnestly? &c.”
XI. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
This beautiful sonnet is quoted in the Merry Wives of Windsor, A. 3. sc. 1. and is ascribed (together with the Reply) to Shakespeare himself by all the modern
And yet there is good reason to believe that (not Shakespeare, but) Christopher Marlow, wrote the song, and Sir Walter Raleigh the “Nymph's reply:” For so we are positively assured by Isaac Walton, a writer of some credit, who has inserted them both in his Compleat Angler , under the character of “that smooth song, which was made by Kit. Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and . . . an Answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days. . . . Old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good.”—It also passed for Marlow's in the opinion of his contemporaries; for the editor of the “Muses Library” has reprinted a poem from England's Helicon, 1600, subscribed Ignoto, and thus intitled, “In Imitation of C. Marlow,” beginning thus,
“And we will revel all the year,
“In plains and groves, &c.”
Upon the whole I am inclined to attribute them to Marlow, and Raleigh; not-withstanding the authority of Shakespeare's Book of Sonnets. For it is well known that as he took no care of his own compositions, so was he utterly regardless what spurious things were fathered upon him. Sir
The following sonnet appears to have been (as it deserved) a great favourite with our earlier poets: for besides the imitation above-mentioned, another is to be found among Donne's poems, intitled “The Bait,” beginning thus,
“And we will some new pleasures prove
“Of golden sands, &c.
As for Chr. Marlow, who was in high repute for his Dramatic writings, he lost his life by a stab received in a brothel, before the year 1593.
See A. Wood, I. 138.And we wil all the pleasures prove
That hils and vallies, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Imbrodered all with leaves of mirtle;
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
With coral clasps, and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
For thy delight each May mornìng:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
The Nymph's Reply.
And truth in every shepherd's toung,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
And all complain of cares to come.
To wayward winter reckoning yield:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall.
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.
Had joyes no date, nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
XII. TITUS ANDRONICUS'S COMPLAINT.
The reader has here an ancient ballad on the same subject as the play of Titus Andronicus, and it is probable
Let the Reader weigh these circumstances and some others wherein he will find them unlike, and then pronounce for himself. —After all, there is reason to conclude that this play was rather improved by Shakespeare with a few fine touches of his pen, than originally writ by him; for not to mention that the style is less figurative than his others generally are, this tragedy is mentioned with discredit in the Induction to Ben Jonson's Bartholomew-fair, in 1614, as one that had then been exhibited “five and twenty, or thirty years:” which, if we take the lowest number, throws it back to the year 1589, at which time Shakespeare was but 25: an
The following is given from a Copy in “The Golden Garland” intitled as above; compared with three others, two of them in black letter in the Pepys Collection, intitled “The Lamentable and Tragical History of Titus Andronicus, &c.—To the tune of Fortune.”—Unluckily none of these have any dates.
That in defence of native country fights,
Give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for Rome,
Yet reapt disgrace at my returning home.
My name beloved was of all my peeres;
Full five and twenty valiant sonnes I had,
Whose forwarde vertues made their father glad.
Against them stille my sonnes and I were sent;
Against the Goths full ten yeeres weary warre
We spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre.
Before we did returne to Rome againe:
Of five and twenty sonnes, I brought but three
Alive, the stately towers of Rome to see.
And did present my prisoners to the king,
The queene of Goths, her sons, and eke a moore,
Which did such murders, like was nere before.
Which bred in Rome debate and deadlie strife;
The moore, with her two sonnes did growe soe proud,
That none like them in Rome might bee allowd.
That she consented to him secretlye
For to abuse her husbands marriage bed,
And soe in time a blackamore she bred.
Consented with the moore of bloody minde
Against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes,
In cruell sort to bring them to their endes,
Both care and griefe began then to increase:
Amongst my sonnes I had one daughter bright,
Which joy'd, and pleased best my aged sight:
To Cesars sonne, a young and noble man:
Who in a hunting by the emperours wife,
And her two sonnes, bereaved was of life.
Into a darksome den from light of skies:
The cruell moore did come that way as then
With my three sonnes, who fell into the den.
For to accuse them of that murderous deed;
And when my sonnes within the den were found,
In wrongfull prison they were cast and bound.
The empresses two sonnes of savage kind
My daughter ravished without remorse,
And took away her honour, quite perforce.
Fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre,
They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell
How that dishonoure unto her befell.
Whereby their wickednesse she could not write;
Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe
The bloudye workers of her direfull woe.
Staining the grassie ground with purple bloud,
That trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes:
Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes.
With teares of bloud I wet mine aged face:
For my Lavinia I lamented more,
Then for my two and twenty sonnes before.
With griefe mine aged heart began to breake;
We spred an heape of sand upon the ground,
Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found.
She writt these wordes upon the plat of sand:
“The lustfull sonnes of the proud emperèsse
“Are doers of this hateful wickednèsse.”
I curst the houre, wherein I first was bred,
I wisht this hand, that fought for countrie's fame,
In cradle rockt, had first been stroken lame.
Did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free
I should unto the king my right hand give,
And then my three imprisoned sonnes should live.
Whereat I grieved not to see it bleed,
But for my sonnes would willingly impart,
And for their ransome send my bleeding heart.
They sent to me my bootlesse hand againe,
And therewithal the heades of my three sonnes,
Which filld my dying heart with fresher moanes.
And with my tears writ in the dust my woe:
I shot my arrowes towards heaven hie,
And for revenge to hell did often crye.
Like furies she and both her sonnes were clad,
(She nam'd Revenge, and Rape and Murder they)
To undermine and heare what I would say.
Untill my friendes did find a secret place,
Where both her sonnes unto a post were bound,
And just revenge in cruell sort was found.
Betwixt her stumpes, wherein the bloud it ran:
And then I ground their bones to powder small,
And made a paste for pyes streight therewithall.
And at a banquet servde in stately wise:
Before the empresse set this loathsome meat;
So of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat.
The empresse then I slewe with bloudy knife,
And stabb'd the emperour immediatelie,
And then myself: even soe did Titus die.
Alive they sett him halfe into the ground,
Whereas he stood untill such time he starv'd.
And soe God send all murderers may be serv'd.
The earliest known, is King John in two parts 1591. 4to. bl. let. This play be afterwards entirely new wrote, as we now have it.
If the ballad was written before the play, I should suppose this to be only a metaphorical expression, taken from that in the Psalms, “They shoot out their arrows, even bitter words.” Ps. 64. 3.
XIII. TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.
The first stanza of this little sonnet, which an eminent critic justly admires for its extreme sweetness, is found in Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, A. 4. sc. 1. Both the stanzas are preserved in Beaum. and Fletcher's Bloody Brother, A. 5. sc. 2. Sewel and Gildon have printed it among Shakespeare's smaller Poems, but they have done the same by twenty other pieces that were never writ by him; their book being a wretched heap of inaccuracies and mistakes. It is not found in Jaggard's old edition of Shakespear's Sonnets reprinted by Lintot.
That so sweetlye were forsworne;
And those eyes, the breake of day,
Lights, that do misleade the morne:
But my kisses bring againe,
Seales of love, but seal'd in vaine.
Which thy frozen bosom beares,
On whose tops the pinkes that growe,
Are of those that April wears:
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.
XIV. KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS.
The Reader has here an ancient ballad on the Subject of King Lear, which (as a sensible female critic has well observed ) bears so exact an analogy to the argument of Shakespeare's play, that his having copied it could not be doubted, if it were certain, that it was written before the tragedy. Here is found the hint of Lear's madness, which the old chronicles do not mention, as also the extravagant cruelty exercised on him by his daughters: In the death of
It may be proper to observe, that Shakespeare was not the first of our Dramatic Poets who fitted the Story of LEIR to the Stage. His first 4to Edition is dated 1608; but three years before that had been printed a play intitled, “The true Chronicle History of Leir and his three daughters Gonorill, Ragan, and Cordella, as it hath been divers and sundry times lately acted. 1605. 4to.”—This is a very poor and dull performance, but happily excited Shakespeare to undertake the subject, which he has given with very different incidents. It is remarkable, that neither the circumstances of Leir's madness; nor his retinue of a select number of knights; nor the affecting deaths of Cordelia and Leir, are found in that first dramatic piece: in all which Shakespeare concurs with this ballad.
But to form a true Judgment of Shakespeare's Merit, the curious Reader should cast his eye over that previous Sketch: which he will find printed at the end of the Twenty Plays of Shakespeare, republished from the quarto impressions by George Steevens, Esq; with such elegance and exactness, as lead us to expect a fine edition of all the works of our great Dramatic Poet.
The following Ballad is given from an ancient copy in the “Golden Garland,” bl. let. intitled, “A lamentable song of the Death of King Leir, and his three daughters. To the Tune of When flying fame.”
With princely power and peace;
And had all things with hearts content,
That might his joys increase.
Three daughters fair had he,
So princely seeming beautiful,
As fairer could not be.
A question thus to move,
Which of his daughters to his grace
Could shew the dearest love:
For to my age you bring content;
Quoth he, then let me hear
Which of you three in plighted troth
The kindest will appear.
Dear father, mind, quoth she,
Before your face, to do you good,
My blood shall render'd be:
And for your sake my bleeding heart
Shall here be cut in twain,
Ere that I see your reverend age
The smallest grief sustain.
Dear father, for your sake,
The worst of all extremities
I'll gently undertake:
And serve your highness night and day
With diligence and love;
Discomforts may remove.
The aged king reply'd;
But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
How is thy love ally'd?
My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
Which to your grace I owe,
Shall be the duty of a child,
And that is all I'll show.
Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small,
When as no more I find:
Henceforth I banish thee my court,
Thou art no child of mine;
Nor any part of this my realm
By favour shall be thine.
Than well I can demand,
To whom I equally bestow
My kingdome and my land,
My pompal state and all my goods,
That lovingly I may
With those thy sisters be maintain'd
Until my dying day.
By these two sisters here:
The third had causeless banishment,
Yet was her love more dear:
For poor Cordelia patiently
Went wandring up and down,
Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
Through many an English town:
She gentler fortunes found;
Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
The fairest on the ground:
Where when the king her virtues heard,
And this fair lady seen,
With full consent of all his court
He made his wife and queen.
With his two daughters staid;
Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
Full soon the same decay'd;
And living in queen Ragan's court,
The eldest of the twain,
She took from him his chiefest means,
And most of all his train.
To wait with bended knee:
And after scarce to three:
Nay, one she thought too much for him,
So took she all away,
In hope that in her court, good king,
He would no longer stay.
In giving all I have
Unto my children, and to beg
For what I lately gave?
I'll go unto my Gonorell;
My second child, I know,
Will be more kind and pitiful,
And will relieve my woe.
Where when she heard his moan
Return'd him answer, That she griev'd,
That all his means were gone:
But no way could relieve his wants;
Yet if that he would stay
Within her kitchen, he should have
What scullions gave away.
He made his answer then;
In what I did let me be made
Example to all men.
Unto my Ragan's court;
She will not use me thus, I hope,
But in a kinder sort.
To drive him thence away:
When he was well within her court
(She said) he would not stay.
Then back again to Gonorell,
The woeful king did hie,
That in her kitchen he might have
What scullion boys set by.
Which she had promis'd late:
For once refusing, he should not
Come after to her gate.
Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
He wandred up and down;
Being glad to feed on beggars food,
That lately wore a crown.
His youngest daughters words,
That said the duty of a child
Was all that love affords:
But doubting to repair to her,
Whom he had banish'd so,
He bore the wounds of woe:
And tresses from his head,
And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
With age and honour spread:
To hills and woods and watry founts,
He made his hourly moan,
Till hills and woods, and sensless things,
Did seem to sigh and groan.
He passed o're to France,
In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
To find some gentler chance:
Most virtuous dame! which when she heard
Of this her father's grief,
As duty bound, she quickly sent
Him comfort and relief:
In brave and gallant sort,
She gave in charge he should be brought
To Aganippus' court;
Whose royal king, with noble mind
So freely gave consent,
To muster up his knights at arms,
To fame and courage bent.
To repossesse king Leir,
And drive his daughters from their thrones
By his Cordelia dear:
Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
Was in the battel slain:
Yet he good king, in his old days,
Possest his crown again.
Who died indeed for love
Of her dear father, in whose cause
She did this battel move;
He swooning fell upon her breast,
From whence he never parted:
But on her bosom left his life,
That was so truly hearted.
The end of these events,
The other sisters unto death
They doomed by consents:
And being dead, their crowns they left
Unto the next of kin:
Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
And disobedient sin.
See Jeffery of Monmouth, Holingshed, &c. who relate Leir's history in many respects the same as the ballad.
XV. YOUTH AND AGE
—is found in the little collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets, intitled the passionate Pilgrime , the greatest part of which seem to relate to the amours of Venus and Adonis, being little effusions of fancy, probably written, while he was composing his larger Poem on that subject. The following seems intended for the mouth of Venus, weighing the comparative merits of youthful Adonis and aged Vulcan. In the “Garland of good will” it is reprinted, with the addition of IV. more such stanzas, but evidently written by a meaner pen.
Cannot live together;
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care:
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather,
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare:
Youth is full of sport,
Ages breath is short;
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee,
Youth, I do adore thee,
O, my love, my love is young:
Age, I do defie thee;
Oh sweet shepheard, hie thee,
For methinks thou stayst too long.
XVI. THE FROLICKSOME DUKE, OR THE TINKER's GOOD FORTUNE.
The following ballad is upon the same subject, as the Induction to Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew: whether it may be thought to have suggested the hint to the Dramatic poet, or is not rather of later date, the reader must determine.
The story is told of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy; and is thus related by an old English writer. “The said Duke, at the marriage of Eleonora, sister to the king of Portugall, at Bruges in Flanders, which was solemnised in the deepe of winter; when as by reason of unseasonable weather he could neither hawke nor hunt, and
This ballad is given from a black letter Copy in the Pepys Collection, which is intitled as above, “To the tune of, Fond boy.”
One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:
But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,
Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:
A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,
As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.
Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.
O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd
To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:
Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose,
And they put him to bed for to take his repose.
They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:
On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,
They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,
For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.
Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;
And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
He desir'd to know what apparel he'd ware:
The poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd,
And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.
Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;
With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,
And it seem'd for to swell him ‘no’ little with pride;
For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?
Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.
Did observe his behaviour in every case.
To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,
Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:
Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,
With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.
He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
In a rich chair ‘or bed,’ lin'd with fine crimson red,
With a rich golden canopy over his head:
As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet,
With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.
Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.
Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,
Till at last he began for to tumble and roul
From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
Being seven times drunker then ever before.
And restore him his old leather garments again:
'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,
And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;
Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;
But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.
That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;
Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought
For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;
But his highness he said, Thou'rt a jolly bold blade,
Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.
Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;
Nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,
Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,
Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,
Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.
Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?
Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?
Then I shall be a squire I well understand:
Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,
I was never before in so happy a case.
XVII. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.
Dispersed thro' Shakespeare's plays are innumerable little fragments of ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the Reader's candour.
One small fragment was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher.
Walkt forth to tell his beades;
And he met with a lady faire
Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.
I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine
My true love thou didst see.
From many another one?
O by his cockle hat, and staff,
And by his sandal shoone .
That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue.
Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turfe,
And at his heels a stone.
He languisht, and he dyed,
Lamenting of a ladyes love,
And 'playning of her pride.
Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.
And art thou dead and gone!
And didst thou dye for love of me!
Break, cruel heart of stone!
Some ghostly comfort seek:
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Ne teares bedew thy cheek.
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth,
That e'er wan ladyes love.
I'll evermore weep and sigh;
For thee I only wisht to live,
For thee I wish to dye.
Thy sorrowe is in vaine:
For violets pluckt the sweetest showers
Will ne'er make grow againe.
Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy losse,
Grieve not for what is past.
I pray thee, say not soe:
For since my true-love dyed for mee,
'Tis meet my tears should flow.
Will he ne'er come again?
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
For ever to remain.
The comliest youth was he!—
But he is dead and laid in his grave:
Alas, and woe is me!
Men were deceivers ever:
One foot on sea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.
And left thee sad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy.
I pray thee say not soe:
My love he had the truest heart:
O he was ever true!
And didst thou dye for mee?
Then farewell home; for ever-more
A pilgrim I will bee.
My weary limbs I'll lay,
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,
That wraps his breathless clay.
Beneath this cloyster wall:
See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
And drizzly rain doth fall.
O stay me not I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me,
Can wash my fault away.
And dry those pearly tears;
For see beneath this gown of gray
Thy owne true-love appears.
These holy weeds I sought;
And here amid these lonely walls
To end my days I thought.
Is not yet past away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay.
Once more unto my heart:
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part.
These are the distinguishing marks of a Pilgrim. The chief places of devotion being beyond sea, the pilgrims were wont to put cockle-shells in their hats to denote the intention or performance of their devotion. Warb. Shakespe Vol. 8. p. 224.
Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||