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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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
BOOK II.
I. A BALLAD OF LUTHER, THE POPE, A CARDINAL, AND A HUSBANDMAN.
In the former Book we brought down this second Series of poems, as low as about the middle of the sixteenth century. We now find the Muses deeply engaged in religious controversy. The sudden revolution, wrought in the opinions of mankind by the Reformation, is one of the most striking events in the history of the human mind. It could not but engross the attention of every individual in that age, and therefore no other writings would have any chance to be read, but such as related to this grand topic. The alterations made in the established religion by Henry VIII, the sudden changes it underwent in the three succeeding reigns within
We are not to wonder that the Ballad-writers of that
age should be inspired with the zeal of controversy, when
the very stage teemed with polemic divinity. I have now
before me two very ancient quarto black-letter plays: the
one published in the time of Henry VIII, intitled, Every
Man; the other called Lusty Iuventus, printed in the
reign of Edward VI. In the former of these, occasion
is taken to inculcate great reverence for old mother church
and her superstitions
: in the other, the poet (one R.
“As in the xxxiij chapter it doth appere:
“Be converted, O ye children, &c.”
From this play we learn that most of the young people were New Gospellers, or friends to the Reformation; and that the old were tenacious of the doctrines imbibed in their youth: for thus the Devil is introduced lamenting the downfal of superstition,
“But the yonger sort leade them a contrary way,
“They wyl not beleve, they playnly say,
“In olde traditions, and made by men, &c.”
And in another place Hypocrisy urges,
“Since chyldren were so boulde:
“Now every boy wil be a teacher,
“The father a foole, the chyld a preacher.”
Of the plays abovementioned, to the first is subjoined the following Printer's Colophon, Thus endeth this moral playe of Every Man. Imprynted at London in Powles chyrche yarde by me John Skor. ✗. In Mr. Garrick's collection is an imperfect copy of the same play, printed by Richarde Pynson.
The other is intitled, An enterlude called Lusty Iuventus: and is thus distinguished at the end: Finis. quod R. Weber. Imprinted at London in Paules churche yeard, by Abraham Dele at the signe of the Lambe. Of this too Mr. Garrick has an imperfect copy of a different edition.
Of these two Plays the Reader may find some farther particulars in the former Volume, Book II. see The Essay on the Origin of the English Stage.
And prayse the lordes magnificence,
Which hath given the wolues a fall,
And is become our strong defence:
For they thorowe a false pretens
From Christes bloude dyd all us leade,
As satisfactours for the deade.
To kepe our house, and servauntes;
That did the Freers from us set,
And with our soules played the marchauntes:
And thus they with theyr false warrantes
Of our sweate have easelye lyved,
That for fatnesse theyr belyes pantes,
So greatlye have they us deceaued.
The carefull, nor the pore wydowe;
They wolde have somewhat more or lesse,
If it above the ground did growe:
But now we husbandmen do knowe
Al their subteltye, and their false caste;
For the lorde hath them overthrowe
With his swete word now at the laste.
Doctor Martin Luther.
Hast usurped kynges powers,
As having power over realmes and townes,
Whom thou oughtest to serve all houres:
Thou thinkest by thy jugglyng colours
Thou maist lykewise Gods word oppresse;
When they theyr nettes craftelye dresse.
Thretening poore men with swearde and fyre;
All those, that do followe Gods worde,
To make them cleve to thy desire,
Theyr bokes thou burnest in flaming fire;
Cursing with boke, bell, and candell,
Such as to reade them have desyre,
Or with them are wyllynge to meddell.
Thou shalt not raygne many a yere,
I shall dryve the from citye and towne,
Even with this pen that thou seyste here:
Thou fyghtest with swerd, shylde, and speare,
But I wyll fyght with Gods worde;
Which is now so open and cleare,
That it shall brynge the under the borde.
The Pope.
And to utter dampnacion,
Throughe myne ensample, and consel,
Or thorow any abhominacion,
Yet doth our lawe excuse my fashion.
And thou, Luther, arte accursed;
The holy decres have the condempned.
Because thou findest it not in scripture;
As though I by myne auctorite
Myght not make one for myne honoure.
Knowest thou not, that I have power
To make, and mar, in heaven and hell,
In erth, and every creature?
Whatsoever I do it must be well.
Am not I Gods hye vicare?
Shulde I be bounde to folowe it,
As the carpenter his ruler?
Nay, nay, heretickes ye are,
That will not obey my auctoritie.
With this sworde I wyll declare,
That ye shal al accursed be.
The Cardinal.
Sent from Christes hye vicary,
To graunt pardon to more, and sume,
That wil Luther resist strongly:
He is a greate hereticke treuly,
And regardeth to much the scripture;
To subdue the popes high honoure.
And loke that ye agaynst him fight;
Plucke up youre herts, and be manlye,
For the pope sayth ye do but ryght:
And this be sure, that at one flyghte,
Allthough ye be overcome by chaunce,
Ye shall to heaven go with greate myghte;
God can make you no resistaunce.
Shall go down to hel every one;
For they have not the popes blessynge,
Nor regarde his holy pardòn:
They thinke from all destruction
By Christes bloud, to be saved,
Fearynge not our excommunicacion,
Therefore shall they al be dampned.
“There is no emperour, kyng, duke, ne baron
“That of God hath commissyon,
“As hath the leest preest in the world beynge.
[OMITTED] “God hath to them more power gyven,
“Than to any aungeil, that is in heven:
“With v. words he may consecrate
“Goddes body in fleshe and blode to take,
“And handeleth his maker bytwene his bandes.
“The preest byndeth and unbindeth all bandes,
“Bothe in erthe and in heven.
“Thou ministers all the sacramentes seven.
“Though we kyst thy fete thou were worthy;
“Thou art the surgyan that cureth synne dedly;
“No remedy may we fynde under God,
“But alone on preesthode.
“Every-man, God gave preest that dignitè,
“And letteth them in his stede amonge us be,
“Thus be they above aungels in degre.”
sign. C. j. b.
II. JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.
A Scottish Song.
While in England verse was made the vehicle of controversy, and Popery was attacked in it by logical argument, or stinging satire; we may be sure the zeal of the Scottish Reformers would not suffer their pens to be idle, but many a pasquil was discharged at the Romish priests, and their enormous encroachments on property. Of this kind perhaps is the following, (preserved in an ancient MS. Collection of Scottish poems in the Pepysian library:)
And a Miller, that will not steill,
With ane Priest, that is not gredy,
And lay ane deid corpse thame by,
And, throw virtue of thame three,
That deid corpse sall qwyknit be.
Thus far all was fair: but the furious hatred of popery led them to employ their rhymes in a still more licentious manner. It is a received tradition in Scotland, that at the time of the Reformation, ridiculous and baudy songs were composed to be sung by the rabble to the tunes of the most favourite hymns in the Latin service Greene sleeves and pudding pies (designed to ridicule the popish clergy) is
The adaptation of solemn church music to these ludicrous pieces, and the jumble of ideas, thereby occasioned, will account for the following fact.—From the Records of the General Assembly in Scotland, called, “The Book of the Universal Kirk,” p. 90. 7th July, 1568, it appears, that Thomas Bassendyne printer in Edinburgh, printed “a psalme buik, in the end whereof was found printit ane baudy sang, called, “Welcome Fortunes .”
John Anderson my jo, cum in as ze gae bye,
And ze sall get a sheips heid weel baken in a pye;
Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pat:
John Anderson my jo, cum in, and ze's get that.
Man.
And how doe ze, Cummer? and how doe ze thrive?
And how mony bairns hae ze?
Wom.
Cummer, I hae five.
Man.
Are they to zour awin gude man?
Wom.
Na, Cummer, na;
For four of tham were gotten, quhan Wallie was awa'.
III. LITTLE JOHN NOBODY.
We have here a witty libel on the Reformation under king Edward VI. written about the year 1550, and preserved in the Pepys collection, British Museum, and Strype's Mem. of Cranmer. The author artfully declines entering into the merits of the cause, and wholly reflects on the lives and actions of many of the Reformed. It is so easy to find flaws and imperfections in the conduct of men, even the best of them, and still easier to make general exclamations about the profligacy of the present times, that no great point is gained by arguments of that sort, unless the author could have proved that the principles of the Reformed Religion had a natural tendency to produce a corruption of manners: whereas he indirectly owns, that their reverend father [archbishop Cranmer] had used the most proper means to stem the torrent, by giving the people access to the scriptures, by teaching them to pray with understanding, and by publishing homilies, and other religious tracts. It must however be acknowledged, that our libeller had at that time sufficient room for just satire. For under the banners of the Reformed had inlisted themselves, many concealed papists, who had private ends to gratify; many that were of no religion; many greedy courtiers, who thirsted after the possessions of the church; and many dissolute persons, who wanted to be exempt from all ecclesiastical censures: And as these men were loudest of all others in their cries for Reformation, so in effect none obstructed the regular progress of it so much, or by their vicious lives brought vexation and shame more on the truly venerable and pious Reformers.
The reader will remark the fondness of our Satirist for alliteration: in this he was guilty of no affectation or singularity; his versification is that of Pierce Plowman's Visions, in which a recurrence of similar letters is essential: to this he has only superadded rhyme, which in his time began to be the general practice. See farther remarks on this kind of metre in the preface to Book III. Ballad I.
After november, when the nights wax noysome and long;
As I past by a place privily at a port,
I saw one sit by himself making a song:
His last talk of trifles, who told with his tongue
That few were fast i'th' faith. I ‘freyned ’ that freake,
Whether he wanted wit, or some had done him wrong.
He said, he was little John Nobody, that durst not speake.
What maner men thou meane, that are so mad.
He said, These gay gallants, that wil construe the gospel,
As Solomon the sage, with semblance full sad;
To discusse divinity they nought adread;
More meet it were for them to milk kye at a fleyke.
Thou lyest, quoth I, thou losel, like a leud lad.
He said, he was little John Nobody, that durst not speake.
And the glorious gospel ghostly to have in mind;
It is sothe said, that sect but much unseemly skalk,
As boyes babble in books, that in scripture are blind:
As to live in lust, in lechery to leyke:
Such caitives count to be come of Cains kind;
But that I little John Nobody durst not speake.
Our service to be said in our seignours tongue;
As Solomon the sage set forth the scripture;
Our suffrages, and service, with many a sweet song,
With homilies, and godly books us among,
That no stiff, stubborn stomacks we should freyke:
But wretches nere worse to do poor men wrong;
But that I little John Nobody dare not speake.
And whoredom was never les hated, sith Christ harrowed hel,
And poor men are so sore punished commonly through the world,
That it would grieve any one, that good is, to hear tel:
For al the homilies and good books, yet their hearts be so quel,
That if a man do amisse, with mischiefe they wil him wreake;
The fashion of these new fellows it is so vile and fell:
But that I little John Nobody dare not speake.
And in lechery to leyke al their long life;
Wil move mischiefe in their mind both to maid and wife
To bring them in advoutry, or else they wil strife,
And in brawling about baudery, Gods commandments breake:
But of these frantic il fellowes, few of them do thrife;
Though I little John Nobody dare not speake.
According to their foolish fantacy; but fast wil they naught:
Prayer with them is but prating; therefore they it forbear:
Both almes deeds, and holiness, they hate it in their thought:
Therefore pray we to that prince, that with his bloud us bought,
That he wil mend that is amiss: for many a manful freyke
Is sorry for these sects, though they say little or nought;
And that I little John Nobody dare not once speake.
Where no man, ‘ne nought was, nor nothing did appear;
Through the sound of a synagogue for sorrow I swett,
That ‘Aeolus ’ through the eccho did cause me to hear.
Then I drew me down into a dale, whereas the dumb deer
Did shiver for a shower; but I shunted from a freyke:
For I would no wight in this world wist who I were,
But little John Nobody, that dare not once speake.
So in Pierce the Plowman's creed, the proud friars are said to be
Vid. Sig. C. ij. b.
IV. Q. ELIZABETH'S VERSES, WHILE PRISONER AT WOODSTOCK,
Writ with charcoal on a shutter,
—are preserved by Hentzner, in that part of his Travels, which has lately been reprinted in so elegant a manner at STRAWBERRY-HILL. In Hentzner's book they were wretchedly corrupted, but are here given as amended by his ingenious Editor. The old orthography, and one or two ancient readings of Hentzner's copy are here restored.
Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt!
Witnes this present prisonn, whither fate
Could beare me, and the joys I quitt.
Thou causedest the guiltie to be losed
From bandes, wherein are innocents inclosed:
Causing the guiltles to be straite reserved,
And freeing those that death had well deserved.
But by her envie can be nothing wroughte,
So God send to my foes all they have thoughte.
Could beare, is an ancient idiom, equivalent to Did bear or Hath borne. See below the Beggar of Bednal Green, ver. 57. Could say.
V. THE HEIR OF LINNE.
This old ballad is given from a copy in the editor's folio MS; some breaches and defects in which; rendered the insertion of a few supplemental stanzas necessary. These it is hoped the reader will pardon.
From the Scottish phrases here and there discernable in this poem, it should seem to have been originally composed beyond the Tweed.
The Heir of Linne appears not to have been a Lord of Parliament, but a Laird, whose title went along with his estate.
Part the First.
To sing a song I will beginne:
It is of a lord of faire Scotlànd,
Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.
His mother a lady of high degree;
But they, alas! were dead, him froe,
And he lov'd keeping companie.
To drinke and revell every night,
To card and dice from eve to morne,
It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.
To alwaye spend and never spare,
I wott, an' it were the king himselfe,
Of gold and fee he mote be bare.
Till all his gold is gone and spent;
And he mun sell his landes so broad,
His house, and landes, and all his rent.
And John o' the Scales was called hee:
But John is become a gentel-man,
And John has gott both gold and fee.
Let nought disturb thy merry cheere,
Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad,
Good store of gold Ile give thee heere.
My lande nowe take it unto thee:
Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales,
And thine for aye my lande shall bee.
And John he gave him a gods-pennie ;
But for every pounde that John agreed,
The lande, I wis, was well worth three.
He was right glad his land to winne:
The land is mine, the gold is thine,
And now Ile be the lord of Linne.
Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
All but a poore and lonesome lodge,
That stood far off in a lonely glenne.
My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee,
Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad,
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:
That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend;
For when all the world doth frown on thee,
Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.
And come with me, my friends, sayd hee,
Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,
And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.
Till all his gold it waxed thinne;
And then his friendes they slunk away;
They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.
Never a penny left but three,
The tone was brass, and the tone was lead,
And tother it was white monèy.
Nowe well-away, and woe is mee,
For when I was the lord of Linne,
I never wanted gold or fee.
And why shold I feel dole or care?
Ile borrow of them all by turnes,
Soe need I not be never bare.
Another had payd his gold away;
Another call'd him thriftless loone,
And bade him sharpely wend his way.
Now well-away, and woe is me!
For when I had my landes so broad,
On me they liv'd right merrilee.
I wis, it were a brenning shame:
To rob and steal it were a sinne:
To worke my limbs I cannot frame.
For there my father bade me wend;
When all the world should frown on mee,
I there shold find a trusty friend.
Part the Second.
O'er hill and holt, and moor and fenne,
Untill he came to lonesome lodge,
That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.
In hope some comfort for to winne,
But bare and lothly were the walles:
Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne.
Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe,
No shimmering sunn here ever shone;
No halesome breeze here ever blew.
No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed,
Nought save a rope with renning noose,
That dangling hung up o'er his head.
These words were written so plain to see:
“Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all,
“And brought thyselfe to penurìe?
“I therefore left this trusty friend:
“Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace,
“And all thy shame and sorrows end.”
Sorely shent was the heire of Linne,
His heart, I wis, was near to brast
With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne.
Never a word he spake but three:
“This is a trusty friend indeed,
“And is right welcome unto mee.”
And sprang aloft with his bodìe:
When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
And to the ground came tumbling hee.
Ne knewe if he were live or dead,
At length he looked, and sawe a bille,
And in it a key of gold so redd.
Strait good comfort found he there:
It told him of a hole in the wall,
In which there stood three chests in fere.
The third was full of white monèy;
And over them in broad lettèrs
These words were written so plaine to see:
“Amend thy life and follies past;
“For but thou amend thee of thy life,
“That rope must be thy end at last.”
And let it bee, but if I amend:
For here I will make mine avow,
This reade shall guide me to the end.
Away he went with a merry cheare:
Till John o' the Scales house he came neare.
Up at the speere then looked hee;
There sate three lords at the bordes end,
Were drinking of the wine so free.
To John o' the Scales then louted hee:
I pray thee now, good John o' the Scales,
One forty pence for to lend mee.
Away, away, this may not bee:
For Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
If ever I trust thee one pennìe.
To John o' the Scales wife then spake he:
Madame, some almes on me bestowe,
I pray for sweet saint Charitìe.
I swear thou gettest no almes of mee;
For if we shold hang any losel heere,
The first we wold begin with thee.
Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord:
Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne;
Some time thou wast a well good lord:
And sparedst not thy gold and fee,
Therefore Ile lend thee forty pence,
And other forty if need bee.
To let him sit in thy companee:
For well I wot thou hadst his land,
And a good bargain it was to thee.
All wood he answer'd him againe:
Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
But I did lose by that bargàine.
Before these lords so faire and free,
Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,
By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.
With that he gave him a gods pennèe:
Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne,
And here, good John, is thy monèy.
And layd them down upon the bord:
All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
Soe shent he cold say never a word.
He told it forth with mickle dinne.
The gold is thine, the land is mine,
And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.
Forty pence thou didst lend mee:
Now I am againe the lord of Linne,
And forty pounds I will give thee.
Now welladay! and woe is my life!
Yesterday I was lady of Linne,
Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.
Farewell, good John o' the Scales, said hee:
When next I want to sell my land,
Good John o' the Scales, Ile come to thee.
VI. GASCOIGNE'S PRAISE OF THE FAIR BRIDGES, AFTERWARDS LADY SANDES,
On her having a scar in her forehead.
George Gascoigne was a celebrated poet in the early part of Q. Elizabeth's reign, and appears to great advantage among the miscellaneous writers of that age. He was author of three or four plays, and of many smaller poems; one of the most remarkable of which is a satire in blank verse, called the Steele-glass, 1576. 4to.
Gascoigne was born in Essex, educated in both universities, whence he removed to Gray's-inn; but, disliking the study of the law, became first a dangler at court, and afterwards a soldier in the wars of the Low Countries. He had no great success in any of these pursuits, as appears from a poem of his, intitled, “Gascoigne's Wodmanship, written to lord Gray of Wilton.” Many of his epistles dedicatory are dated in 1575, 1576, from “his poore house in Walthamstoe:” where he died a middle-aged man in 1578, according to Anth. Wood: or rather in 1577, if he is the person meant in an old tract, intitled, “A remembrance of the well-employed Life and godly End of Geo. Gascoigne, Esq; who deceased at Stamford in Lincolnshire, Oct. 7. 1577. by Geo. Whetstone, Gent. an eyewitness of his godly and charitable end in this world,”
A very ingenious critic thinks “Gascoigne has much exceeded all the poets of his age, in smoothness and harmony of versification .” But the truth is, scarce any of the earlier poets of Q. Elizabeth's time are found deficient in harmony and smoothness, tho' those qualities appear so rare in the writings of their successors. In the Paradise of dainty devises , (the Dodsley's Miscellany of those times)
The following poem (which the elegant writer above quoted hath recommended to notice, as possessed of a delicacy rarely to be seen in that early state of our poetry) properly consists of alexandrines of 12 and 14 syllables, and is printed from two quarto black-letter collections of Gascoigne's pieces; the first intitled, “A hundreth sundrie flowres, bounde up in one small posie, &c. London, imprinted for Richarde Smith:” without date, but from a letter of H. W. (p. 202.) compared with the Printer's epist. to the Reader, it appears to have been published in 1572, or 3. The other is intitled, “The Posies of George Gascoigne, Esq; corrected, perfected, and augmented by the authour; 1575.—Printed at Lond. for Richard Smith, &c.” No year, but the epist. dedicat. is dated 1576.
In the title page of this last (by way of printer's , or bookseller's device) is an ornamental wooden cut, tolerably well executed, wherein time is represented drawing the figure of Truth out of a pit or cavern, with this legend, Occulta veritas tempore patet [r. s.] This is mentioned because it is not improbable but the accidental sight of this or some other title-page containing the same device, suggested to Rubens that well-known design of a similar kind, which he has introduced into the Luxemburg gallery , and which has been so justly censured for the unnatural manner of its execution.—The device abovementioned being not ill adapted to the subject of this volume, is with some small variations copied in a plate, which to gratify the curiosity of the Reader is prefixed to Book III.
What dame doth most excell;
For my conceit I must needes say,
Faire Bridges beares the bel:
To prove my judgment true,
The rose and lillie seeme to strive
For equall change of hewe:
Hir graces all agree,
No frowning cheere dare once presume
In hir sweet face to bee.
Which like some other best,
Will say, the blemishe on hir browe
Disgraceth all the rest.
God wotte, they little knowe
The hidden cause of that mishap,
Nor how the harm did growe:
Had framde hir heavenly face,
And thoroughly bedecked it
With goodly gleames of grace;
Lo here, quod she, a peece
For perfect shape, that passeth all
Appelles' worke in Greece.
The greatest God of love,
Or mightie thundring Jove himself,
That rules the roast above.
Were vaunted all in vayne;
And some unseen wer present there,
Pore Bridges, to thy pain.
Close in a corner stoode,
Not blyndfold then, to gaze on hir:
I gesse it did him good.
Gan kindle in his brest,
And herd dame Nature boast by hir
To break him of his rest,
He chaunged into hate,
And sodeynly with mightie mace
Gan rap hir on the pate.
To see the cruell deede:
Mee seemes I see hir, how she wept
To see hir dearling bleede.
Shal have some helpe I trowe:
And quick with skin she coverd it,
That whiter is than snowe.
For feare of further flame,
When angel-like he saw hir shine,
Whome he had smit with shame.
In cradel of hir kind:
The coward Cupide brake his browe
To wreke his wounded mynd.
No force, there let it bee:
There is no cloude that can eclipse
So bright a sunne, as she.
The same is true of most of the poems in the Mirrour of Magistrates, 1563, 4to, and even of Surrey's Poems, 1557.
In cradel of her kind: i. e. in the cradle of her family. Query.—See Warton's observations, vol. 2. p. 137.
VII. FAIR ROSAMOND.
Most of the circumstances in this popular story of king Henry II. and the beautiful Rosamond have been taken for fact by our English Historians; who, unable to account for the unnatural conduct of queen Eleanor in stimulating her sons to rebellion, have attributed it to jealousy, and supposed that Henry's amour with Rosamond was the object of that passion.
Our old English annalists seem, most of them, to have followed Higden the monk of Chester, whose account with some enlargements is thus given by Stow. “Rosamond the fayre daughter of Walter lord Clifford, concubine to Henry II. (poisoned by queen Elianor, as some thought) dyed at Woodstocke [A. D. 1177.] where king Henry had made for her a house of wonderfull working; so that no man or woman might come to her, but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right secret with him touching the matter. This house after some was named Labyrinthus, or Dedalus worke, which was wrought like unto a knot in a garden, called a Maze ; but it was commonly said, that lastly the queene came to her by a clue of thridde, or silke, and so dealt with her, that she lived not long after: but when she was dead, she was buried at Godstow in an house of nunnes, beside Oxford, with these verses upon her tombe,
Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet.
“Is now here graven; to whom beauty was lent:
“In this grave full darke nowe is her bowre,
“That by her life was sweete and redolent:
“But now that she is from this life blent,
“Though she were sweete, now foully doth she stinke.
“A mirrour good for all men, that on her thinke.”
Stowe's Annals, Ed. 1631. p. 154.
How the queen gained admittance into Rosamond's bower is differently related. Hollingshed speaks of it, as “the common report of the people, that the queene . . . founde hir out by a silken thread, which the king had drawne after him out of hir chamber with his foot, and dealt with hir in such sharpe and cruell wise, that she lived not long after.” Vol. III. p. 115. On the other hand, in Speede's Hist. we are told that the jealous queen found her out “by a clew of silke, fallen from Rosamund's lappe, as shee sate to take ayre, and suddenly fleeing from the sight of the searcher, the end of her silke fastened to her foot, and the clew still unwinding, remained behinde: which the queene followed, till shee had found what she sought, and upon Rosamund so vented her spleene, as the lady lived not long after.” 3d Edit. p. 509. Our ballad-maker with more ingenuity, and probably as much truth, tells us the clue was gained, by surprise, from the knight, who was left to guard her bower.
It is observable, that none of the old writers attribute Rosamond's death to poison, (Stow, above, mentions it meerly as a slight conjecture); they only give us to understand, that the queen treated her harshly; which furious menaces, we may suppose, and sharp expostulations, which had such effect on her spirits, that she did not long survive it. Indeed on
Rosamond's father having been a great benefactor to the nunnery of Godstow, where she had also resided herself in the innocent part of her life, her body was conveyed there, and buried in the middle of the choir; in which place it remained till the year 1191, when Hugh bishop of Lincoln caused it to be removed. The fact is recorded by Hoveden, a contemporary writer, whose words are thus translated by Stow. “Hugh bishop of Lincolne came to the abbey of nunnes, called Godstow, . . . . and when he had entred the church to pray, he saw a tombe in the middle of the quire, covered with a pall of silke, and set about with lights of waxe: and demanding whose tombe it was, he was answered, that it was the tombe of Rosamond, that was some time lemman to Henry II. . . . . who for the love of her had done much good to that church. Then quoth the bishop, take out of this place the harlot, and bury her without the church, lest christian religion should grow in contempt, and to the end that, through example of her, other women being made afraid may beware, and keepe themselves from unlawfull and advouterous company with men.” Annals, p. 159.
History further informs us, that king John repaired Godstow nunnery, and endowed it with yearly revenues, “that
To conclude this (perhaps too prolix) account, Henry had two sons by Rosamond, from a computation of whose ages, a modern historian has endeavoured to invalidate the received story. These were William Longue-espè (or Long-sword) earl of Salisbury, and Geoffrey bishop of Lincolne . Geoffrey was the younger of Rosamond's sons, and yet is said to have been twenty years old at the time of his election to that see in 1173. Hence this writer concludes, that king Henry fell in love with Rosamond in 1149, when in king Stephen's reign he came over to be knighted by the king of Scots; he also thinks it probable that Henry's commerce with this lady broke off upon his marriage with Eleanor [in 1152.] and that the young lady, by a natural effect of grief and resentment at the defection of her lover, entered on that occasion into the nunnery of Godstowe, where she died probably before the rebellion of Henry's sons in 1173.” [Carte's hist. Vol. I. p. 652.] But let it be observed, that Henry was but sixteen years old when he came over to be knighted; that he staid but eight months in this island, and was almost all the time with the king of Scots; that he did not return back to England till 1153, the year after his marriage with Eleanor; and that no writer drops the least hint of Rosamand's having ever been abroad with her lover, nor indeed is it probable that a boy of sixteen should venture to carry over a mistress to
Indeed the true date of Geoffrey's birth, and consequently of Henry's commerce with Rosamund, seems to be best ascertained from an ancient manuscript in the Cotton library: wherein it is thus registered of Geofferey Plantagenet, “Natus est 5°. Hen. II. [1159.] Factus est miles 25°. Hen. II. [1179.] Elect. in Episcop. Lincoln. 28°. Hen. II. [1182.].” Vid. Chron. de Kirkstall. (Domitian XII.) Drake's Hist. of York, p. 422.
The following ballad is printed from four ancient copies in black letter; two of them in the Pepys library.
The second of that name,
Besides the queene, he dearly lovde
A faire and comely dame.
Her favour, and her face;
A sweeter creature in this worlde
Could never prince embrace.
Appeard to each mans sight;
Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,
Did cast a heavenlye light.
Did such a colour drive,
As though the lillye and the rose
For mastership did strive.
Her name was called so,
To whom our queene, dame Ellinor,
Was known a deadlye foe.
Against the furious queene,
At Woodstocke builded such a bower,
The like was never seene.
Of stone and timber strong,
An hundered and fifty doors
Did to this bower belong:
With turnings round about,
That none but with a clue of thread,
Could enter in or out.
That was so faire and brighte,
The keeping of this bower he gave
Unto a valiant knighte.
Where she before did smile,
The kinges delighte and ladyes joy
Full soon shee did beguile:
Whom he did high advance,
Against his father raised warres
Within the realme of France.
The English land forsooke,
Of Rosamond, his lady faire,
His farewelle thus he tooke:
That pleasest best mine eye:
The fairest flower in all the worlde
To feed my fantasye:
Whose sweetness doth excelle:
My royal Rose, a thousand times
I bid thee nowe farewelle!
My sweetest Rose, a space,
And cross the seas to famous France,
Proud rebelles to abase.
My coming shortlye see,
And in my heart, when hence I am,
Ile beare my Rose with mee.”
Did heare the king saye soe,
The sorrowe of her grieved heart
Her outward lookes did showe;
The teares gusht out apace,
Which like the siver-pearled dewe
Ranne downe her comely face.
Did waxe both wan and pale,
And for the sorrow she conceivde
Her vitall spirits faile;
Before king Henryes face,
Full oft he in his princelye armes
Her bodye did embrace:
He kist her tender cheeke,
Untill he had revivde againe
Her senses milde and meeke.
The king did often say.
Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres
My lord must part awaye.
Amonge your foes unkinde
Must goe to hazard life and limbe,
Why should I staye behinde?
Your sworde and target beare;
That on my breast the blowes may lighte,
Which would offend you there.
Prepare your bed at nighte,
And with sweete baths refresh your grace,
At your returne from fighte.
No toil I will refuse;
But wanting you, my life is death;
Nay, death Ild rather chuse!
Thy rest at home shall bee
In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;
For travell fits not thee.
Soft peace their sexe delightes;
‘Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;
Gay feastes, not cruell fightes.’
With musicke passe the daye;
Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes,
My foes seeke far awaye.
Whilst Ime in armour dighte;
Gay galliards here my love shall dance,
Whilst I my foes goe fighte.
To bee my loves defence;
Be carefull of my gallant Rose
When I am parted hence.”
As though his heart would breake:
And Rosamonde, for very griefe,
Not one plaine word could speake.
In heart be grieved sore:
After that daye faire Rosamonde
The king did see no more.
And into France was gone;
With envious heart, queene Ellinor,
To Woodstocke came anone.
In an unhappy houre;
Who with his clue of twined thread,
Came from this famous bower.
The queene this thread did gette,
And went where ladye Rosamonde
Was like an angell sette.
Beheld her beauteous face,
She was amazed in her minde
At her exceeding grace.
That riche and costlye bee;
And drinke thou up this deadlye draught,
Which I have brought to thee.
Sweet Rosamonde did falle;
And pardon of the queene she crav'd
For her offences all.
Faire Rosamonde did crye;
And lett mee not with poison stronge
Enforced bee to dye.
And in some cloyster bide;
Or else be banisht, if you please,
To range the world soe wide.
Though I was forc'd theretoe,
Preserve my life, and punish mee
As you thinke meet to doe.”
She wrunge full often there;
And downe along her lovelye face
Did trickle many a teare.
Therewith appeased bee;
The cup of deadlye poyson stronge,
As she knelt on her knee,
Who tooke it in her hand,
And from her bended knee arose,
And on her feet did stand:
Shee did for mercye calle;
And drinking up the poison stronge,
Her life she lost withalle.
Had showde its greatest spite,
Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse
Shee was a glorious wight.
When life was fled away,
At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,
As may be seene this day.
Consisting of vaults under ground, arched and walled with brick and stone, according to Drayton.
Tho. Allen of Gloc. Hall, Oxon. who died in 1632, aged 90. See Hearne's rambling discourse concerning Rosamond, at the end of Gul. Neubrig Hist. Vol. 3. p. 739.
VIII. QUEEN ELEANOR'S CONFESSION.
“Eleanor, the daughter and heiress of William duke of Guienne, and count of Poictou, had been married sixteen years to Louis VII. king of France, and had attended him in a croisade, which that monarch commanded against the infidels; but having lost the affections of her husband, and even fallen under some suspicions of gallantry with a handsome Saracen, Louis, more delicate than politic, procured a divorce from her, and restored her those rich provinces, which by her marriage she had annexed to the crown of France. The young count of Anjou, afterwards Henry II. king of England, tho' at that time but in his nineteenth year, neither discouraged by the disparity of age, nor by the reports of Eleanor's gallantry, made such successful courtship to that princess, that he married her six weeks after her divorce, and got possession of all her dominions as a dowery. A marriage thus founded upon interest was not likely to be very happy: it
It is needless to observe, that the following ballad (given from an old printed copy) is altogether fabulous; whatever gallantries Eleanor encouraged in the time of her first husband, none are imputed to her in that of her second.
And afraid that she should dye:
Then she sent for two fryars of France
To speke with her speedilye.
By one, by two, by three;
“Earl marshall, Ile goe shrive the queene,
And thou shalt wend with mee.”
And fell on his bended knee;
That whatsoever queene Elianor saye,
No harme therof may bee.
My sceptre, crowne, and all,
That whatsoere queen Elianor sayes
No harme thereof shall fall.
And Ile put on another;
And we will to queen Elianor goe
Like fryar and his brother.
When they came to Whitehall,
The bells did ring, and the quiristers sing,
And the torches did lighte them all.
They fell on their bended knee;
A boone, a boone, our gracious queene,
That you sent so hastilee.
As I suppose you bee?
But if you are two Englishe fryars,
You shall hang on the gallowes tree.
As you suppose we bee,
We have not been at any masse
Sith we came from the sea.
I will to you unfolde;
Earl marshall had my maidenhed,
Beneath this cloth of golde.
May God forgive it thee!
Amen, amen, quoth earl marshall;
With a heavye heart spake hee.
To you Ile not denye,
I made a boxe of poyson strong,
To poison king Henrye.
May God forgive it thee!
Amen, amen, quoth earl marshall;
And I wish it so may bee.
To you I will discover;
I poysoned fair Rosamonde,
All in fair Woodstocke bower.
May God forgive it thee!
Amen, amen, quoth earl marshall;
And I wish it so may bee.
A tossing of the balle?
That is earl marshalls eldest sonne,
And I love him the best of all.
A catching of the balle?
That is king Henryes youngest sonne,
And I love him the worst of all.
His nose is like a boare.
No matter for that, king Henrye cryd,
I love him the better therfore.
And appeared all in redde:
She shrieked, and cryd, and wrung her hands,
And sayd she was betrayde.
And a grimme look looked hee,
Earl marshall, he sayd, but for my oathe,
Or hanged thou shouldst bee.
IX. THE STURDY ROCK.
This poem, subscribed M. T. [perhaps invertedly for T. Marshall ] is preserved in The Paradise of daintie devises, quoted above in page 136—The two first stanzas may be found accompanied with musical notes in “An bowres recreation in musicke, &c. by Richard Alison, Lond. 1606. 4to.:” usually bound up with 3 or 4 sets of “Madrigals set to music by Tho. Weelkes, Lond. 1597. 1600. 1608, 4to.” One of these madrigals is so compleat an example of the Bathos, that I cannot forbear presenting it to the reader.
Doth vaunt of Hecla, whose sulphurious fire
Doth melt the frozen clime, and thaw the skie,
Trinacrian Ætna's flames ascend not hier:
These things seeme wondrous, yet more wondrous I,
Whose heart with feare doth freeze, with love doth fry.
Laden with cutchinele and china dishes,
Reports in Spaine, how strangely Fogo burnes
Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes:
These things seeme wondrous, yet more wondrous I,
Whose heart with feare doth freeze, with love doth fry.
Mr. Weelkes seems to have been of opinion with many of his brethren of later times, that nonsense was best adapted to display the powers of musical composure.
By raging seas is rent in twaine:
The marble stone is pearst at length,
With little drops of drizling rain:
The oxe doth yeeld unto the yoke,
The steele obeyeth the hammer stroke.
By yalping hounds at bay is set:
The swiftest bird, that flies about,
Is caught at length in fowlers net:
The greatest fish, in deepest brooke,
Is soone deceived by subtill hooke.
All things are bounden to obey,
For all his wit and worthie skill,
Doth fade at length, and fall away.
There is nothing but time doeth waste;
The heavens, the earth consume at last.
Upon the throne of glorious fame:
Though spiteful death mans body kill,
Yet hurts he not his vertuous name:
By life or death what so betides,
The state of vertue never slides.
X. THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL-GREEN.
This popular old ballad was written in the reign of Elizabeth, as appears not only from ver. 23. where the arms of England are called the “Queenes armes;” but from its tune's being quoted in other old pieces, written in her time. See the ballad on Mary Ambree in this volume.—An ingenious gentleman has assured the Editor, that he has formerly seen another old song on the same subject, composed in a different measure from this; which was truly beautiful, if we may judge from the only stanza he remembered: in this it was said of the old beggar, that “down his neck
In comelye curles did wave;
And on his aged temples grewe
The blossomes of the grave.”
The following ballad is chiefly given from the Editor's folio MS. compared with two ancient printed copies: the concluding stanzas, which contain the old Beggar's discovery of himself, are not however given from any of these, being very different from those of the vulgar ballad. They were communicated to the Editor in manuscript; but he will not answer for their being genuine: he rather thinks them the modern production of some person, who was offended at the absurdities, and inconsistencies, which so remarkably prevailed in this part of the song, as it stood before: whereas by the alteration of a few lines, the story is rendered much more affecting, and is reconciled to probability and true history. For this informs us, that at the decisive battle of
Part the First.
He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright;
And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,
For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.
Yett seeing shee was but a blinde beggars heyre,
Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,
Whose sonnes came as suitors to pretty Bessee.
Good father, and mother, let me goe away
To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.
Her suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.
All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night
From father and mother alone parted shee;
Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.
Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe:
With teares shee lamented her hard destinìe,
So sadd and so heavy was prettye Bessee.
And went unto Rumford along the hye way;
Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee:
So faire and wel favoured was prettye Bessee.
But master and mistres and all was her friend:
And every brave gallant, that once did her see,
Was strait-way enamourd of prettye Bessee.
And in their songs daylye her love was extold;
Her beautye was blazed in every degree;
Soe faire and soe comelye was prettye Bessee.
Shee shewd herself courteous, and modestlye coye;
And at her commandment still wold they bee;
Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.
They craved her favor, but still shee sayd noe;
I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee.
Yett ever they honoured prettye Bessee.
And he came unto her disguisde in the night:
The second a gentleman of good degree,
Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.
He was the third suiter, and proper withall:
Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee,
Who swore he wold dye for prettye Bessee.
Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight;
My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtìe,
That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.
As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee:
My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee;
And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee.
Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay
My shippes shall bring home rych jewels for thee,
And I will for ever love prettye Bessee.
My father and mother I meane to obey;
First gett their good will, and be faithful to mee,
And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.
Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd,
This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree;
But where dwells thy father, my prettye Bessee?
The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene,
That daylye sits begging for charitìe,
He is the good father of prettye Bessee.
He always is led with a dogg and a bell:
A seely olde man God knoweth is hee,
Yett hee is the father of prettye Bessee.
Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe shalt thou bee:
I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree,
And therefore, adewe, my prettye Bessee!
I weighe not true love by the weight of the pursse,
And bewtye is bewtye in every degree;
Then welcome unto mee, my prettye Bessee.
Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe;
A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee,
Then take thy adew of prettye Bessee.
The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.
The yonge men of Rumford, as thicke as might bee,
Rode after to feitch againe prettye Bessee.
Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene;
And as the knight lighted most curteouslìe,
They all fought against him for prettye Bessee.
Or else the young knight for his love had beene slaine.
This fray being ended, then straitway he see
His kinsmen come rayling at prettye Bessee.
Yett rayle not against my child at my owne door:
Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle,
Yett I will dropp angells with you for my girle.
And equall the gold that you lay on the earth,
Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see
The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.
The gold that you drop shall all be your owne.
With that they replyed, Contented bee wee.
Then here's, quoth the beggar, for prettye Bessee.
And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;
And oftentimes it was proved most plaine,
For the gentlemens one the beggar dropt twayne:
With gold it was covered every whitt.
The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,
Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for we have no more.
Then marry my girle, quoth he to the knight;
And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe
A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.
Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene:
And all those, that were her suitors before,
Their fleshe for very anger they tore.
And then made a ladye in others despite:
A fairer ladye there never was seene,
Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene.
What brave lords and knights thither were prest,
The second fit shall set forth to your sight
With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.
Part the Second.
Adorned with all the cost they colde have,
This wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe,
And all for the creditt of prettye Bessee.
Were bought for their banquet, as it was meete;
Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.
So that a great number therto did resort
Of nobles and gentles in every degree;
And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.
His bride followed after, an angell most bright,
With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was seene
That went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene.
With musicke performed by the skilfullest men,
The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde,
Each one admiring the beautifull bryde.
To talke, and to reason a number begunn:
They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright,
And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.
This jolly blind beggar we cannot here see.”
My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base,
He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.
Before her own face, were a flattering thinge;
But wee thinke thy father's baseness, quoth they,
Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye.”
But in comes the beggar clad in a silke cloke;
A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee,
And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee.
He touched the strings, which made such a charme,
Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee,
Ile sing you a song of prettye Bessee.
And thereon begann most sweetlye to play;
And after that lessons were playd two or three,
He strayn'd out this song most delicatelìe.
“Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene:
“A blithe bonny lasse, and a dainty was shee,
“And many one called her prettye Bessee.
“But beggd for a penny all day with his hand;
“And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three,
“And still he hath somewhat for prettye Bessee.
“Her father is ready, with might and with maine,
“To prove shee is come of noble degree:
“Therfòre never flout at prettye Bessee.”
With hearty laughter were readye to swound;
At last sayd the lords, Full well wee may see,
The bride and the beggar's beholden to thee.
The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes,
O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee,
That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.
Well may he be proud of this happy day;
Yett by his countenance well may we see,
His birth and his fortune did never agree:
(And looke that the truth thou to us doe say)
Thy birth and thy parentage, what it may bee;
For the love that thou bearest to prettye Bessee.
“One song more to sing, and then I have done;
“And if that itt may not winn good report,
“Then do not give me a groat for my sport.
“Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee,
“Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase,
“Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race.
“Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;
“A leader of courage undaunted was hee,
“And oft-times hee made their enemyes flee.
“The barons were routed, and Montfort was slaine;
“Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee,
“Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!
“His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side,
“Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight!
“A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.
“Till evening drewe on of the following daye,
“When by a yong ladye discoverd was hee;
“And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee!
“To search for her father, who fell in the fight,
“And seeing yong Montfort, where gasping he laye,
“Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye.
“While he throughe the realme was beleevd to be slaine:
“At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee,
“And made him glad father of prettye Bessee.
“We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye;
“Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee:
“All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.
“Thoughe meane, yet contented with humble delighte:
“Thus many longe winters nowe have I beene
“The sillye blinde beggar of Bednall-greene.
“Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong:
“And thus have you learned a secrette from mee,
“That ne'er had beene knowne, but for prettye Bessee.”
Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne,
They all were amazed, as well they might bee,
Both at the blinde beggar, and prettye Bessee.
Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race,
Thy father likewise is of noble degree,
And thou art right worthy a ladye to bee.
A bridegroome most happye then was the yong knighte,
In joye and felicitie long lived hee,
All with his faire ladye, the prettye Bessee.
The word fit, for part, often occurs in our ancient ballads and metrical romances; which being divided into several parts for the convenience of singing them at public entertainments, were in the intervals of the feast sung by fits, or intermissions. So Puttenham in his Art of English poesie, 1589, says “the Epithalamie was divided by breaches into three partes to serve for three several fits, or times to be sung.”
From the same writer we learn some curious particulars relative to the state of ballad-singing in that age, that will throw light on the present subject: speaking of the quick returns of one manner of tune in the short measures used by common rhymers; these, he says, “glut the eare, unless it be in small and popular musickes, sung by these Cantabanqui, upon benches and barrels heads, where they have none other audience then boys or countrey fellowes, that passe by them in the streete; or else by blind harpers, or such like taverne Minstrels, that give a fit of mirth for a groat, . . their matter being for the most part stories of old time, as the tale of Sir Topas, the reportes of Bevis of Southampton, Guy of Warwicke, Adam Bell and Clymme of the Clough, and such other old romances or historical rimes, made purposely for recreation of the common people at Christmasse dinners and brideales, and in tavernes and alehouses, and such other places of base resorte.”
This species of entertainment, which seems to have been handed down from the ancient bards, was in the time of Puttenham falling apace into neglect; but that it was not, even then, wholly excluded more genteel assemblies, he gives us room to infer from another passage. “We ourselves, says this courtly writer, have written for pleasure a little brief romance, or historical ditty in the English tong of the Isle of Great Britaine in short and long meetres, and by breaches or divisions [i. e. fits,] to be more commodiously sung to the harpe in places of assembly, where the company shal be desirous to heare of old adventures, and valiaunces of noble knights in times past, as are those of king Arthur and his knights of the Round table, Sir Bevys of Southampton, Guy of Warwicke, and others like.”
In more ancient times no grand scene of festivity was compleat without one of these reciters to entertain the company with feats of arms, and tales of knighthood, or, as one of these old minstrels says, in the beginning of an ancient romance in the Editor's folio MS.
“And lords and ladyes still wil bee,
“And sitt and solace lythe;
“Then itt is time for mee to speake
“Of keene knightes, and kempès great,
“Such carping for to kythe.”
If we consider that a groat in the age of Elizabeth was more than equivalent to a shilling now, we shall find that the old harpers were even then, when their art was on the decline, upon a far more reputable footing than the ballad-singers of our time. The reciting of one such ballad as this of the Beggar of Bednal-green, in II parts, was rewarded with half a crown of our money. And that they made a very respectable appearance, we may learn from the dress of the old beggar, in the following stanzas, ver. 34, where he comes into company in the habit and character of one of these minstrels, being not known to be the bride's father, till after her speech, ver. 63. The exordium of his song, and his claiming a groat for his reward, v. 76, are peculiarly characteristic of that profession.—Most of the old ballads begin in a pompous manner, in order to captivate the attention of the audience, and induce them to purchase a recital of the song: and they seldom conclude the first part without large promises of still greater entertainment in the second. This was a necessary piece of art to incline the hearers to be at the expence of a second groat's-worth—Many of the old romances extend to eight or nine fits, which would afford a considerable profit to the reciter.
To return to the word fit; it seems at first to have peculiarly signified the pause, or breathing-time between the several parts, (answering to Passus in the visions of Pierce Plowman): thus in the old poem of John the Reeve, the first part ends with this line,
“The first fitt here find wee:”i. e. here we come to the first pause or intermission .—By degrees it came to signify the whole part or division preceding the pause; and this sense it had obtained so early as the time of Chaucer: who thus concludes the first part of his rhyme of Sir Thopas (writ in ridicule of the old ballad romances)
“If ye woll any more of it,
“To tell it woll I fonde.”
He was one of Q. Elizabeth's gent. pensioners, at a time when the whole band consisted of men of distinguished birth and fortune. Vid. Atb. Ox.
See also above, Vol. I. p. 9.—The reader will find further remarks on the word Fit at the end of this Volume, and in the Glossary to Vol. I. &c.
XI. FANCY AND DESIRE.
By the Earl of Oxford.
Edward Vere Earl of Oxford was in high fame for his poetical talents in the reign of Elizabeth: perhaps it is no injury to his reputation that few of his compositions are preserved for the inspection of impartial posterity. To gratify curiosity, we have inserted a sonnet of his, which is quoted with great encomiums for its “excellencie and wit,” in Puttenham's Arte of Eng. Poesie , and found intire in the Garland of Good-will: A few more of his sonnets (distinguished by the initial letters E. O.) may be seen in the Paradise of Daintie Devises. One of these is intitled, “The Complaint of a Lover, wearing blacke and tawnie.” The only lines in it worth notice are these,
Who triumphs over me;
For black and tawnie will I weare,
Which mourning colours be.
We find in Hall's Chronicle, that when Q. Catharine of Arragon dyed Jan. 8. 1536; “Queen Anne [Bullen] ware “yellowe for the mourning.” And when this unfortunate princess lost her head May 19. the same year, “on the ascencion day following, the kyng for mourning ware “whyte.” Fol. 227, 228.
Edward, who was the XVIIth earl of Oxford of the family of Vere, succeeded his father in his title and honours in 1562, and died an aged man in 1604.
“Sir, what do you require?”
I praye thee, shewe to me thy name.
“My name is fond desire.”
“In pompe and pryme of may.”
By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot?
“By fond Conceit men say.”
“Fresh Youth in sugred joy.”
What was thy meate and dayly foode?
“Sad sighes with great annoy.”
“Unsavoury lovers teares.”
What cradle wert thou rocked in?
“In hope devoyde of feares.”
“Sweete speech, which likes me best.”
Tell me, where is thy dwelling place?
“In gentle hartes I rest.”
“To gaze on beautye stille.”
Whom dost thou thinke to be thy foe?
“Disdayn of my good wille.”
“Yea, surelye, many one.”
Where doth Desire delighte to live?
“He loves to live alone.”
Bringe him unto decaye?
“No, no, Desire both lives and dyes
“Ten thousand times a daye.”
Thou art no mate for mee;
I sholde be lothe, methinkes, to dwelle
With such a one as thee.
XII. SIR ANDREW BARTON.
I cannot give a better relation of the fact, which is the subject of the following ballad, than in an extract from a very elegant work lately offered to the public.
“The transaction which did the greatest honour to the earl of Surrey and his family at this time [A. D. 1511.] was their behaviour in the case of Barton, a Scotch sea-officer. This gentleman's father having suffered by sea from the Portuguese, he had obtained letters of marque for his two sons to make reprisals upon the subjects of Portugal. It is extremely probable, that the court of Scotland granted these letters with no very honest intention. The council board of England, at which the earl of Surrey held the chief place, was daily pestered with complaints from the sailors and merchants, that Barton, who was called Sir Andrew Barton, under pretence of searching for Portuguese goods, interrupted the English navigation. Henry's situation at that time rendered him backward from breaking with Scotland, so that their complaints were but coldly received. The earl of Surrey, however, could not smother his indignation, but gallantly declared at the council board, that while he had an estate that could furnish out a ship, or a son that was capable of commanding one, the narrow seas should not be infested.
“Sir Andrew Barton, who commanded the two Scotch ships, had the reputation of being one of the ablest sea-officers of his time. By his depredations, he had amassed great wealth, and his ships were very richly laden. Henry, notwithstanding his situation, could not refuse the generous offer made by the earl of Surrey. Two ships were immediately fitted out, and put to sea with letters of marque, under his two sons, Sir Thomas and Sir Edward Howard. After encountering a great deal of foul weather, Sir Thomas came up with the Lion, which was commanded by Sir Andrew Barton in person; and Sir Edward came up with the Union, Barton's other ship, [called by Hall, the bark of Scotland.] The engagement which ensued was extremely obstinate on both sides; but at last the fortune of the Howards prevailed. Sir Andrew was killed fighting bravely, and encouraging his
“This exploit had the more merit, as the two English commanders were in a manner volunteers in the service, by their father's order. But it seems to have laid the foundation of Sir Edward's fortune; for on the 7th of April 1512, the king constituted him (according to Dugdale) admiral of England, Wales, &c,
“King James ‘insisted’ upon satisfaction for the death of Barton, and capture of his ship: ‘tho’ Henry had generously dismissed the crews, and even agreed that the parties accused might appear in his courts of admiralty by their attornies, to vindicate themselves.” This affair was in a great measure the cause of the battle of Flodden, in which James IV. lost his life.
IN the following ballad will be found perhaps some few deviations from the truth of history: to atone for which it has probably recorded many lesser facts, which history hath not condescended to relate. I take many of the little circumstances of the story to be real, because I find one of the most unlikely to be not very remote from the truth. In Pt. 2. v. 156. it is said, that England had before “but two ships of war.” Now the great Harry had been built for seven years before, viz. in 1504: which “was properly speaking the first ship in the English navy. Before this period, when the prince wanted a fleet, he had no other expedient but hiring ships from the merchants.”
The following copy (which is given from the Editor's folio MS. and seems to have been written early in the reign of Elizabeth, if not before,) will be found greatly superior to the vulgar ballad, which is evidently modernized and abridged from it. Some few deficiences are however supplied from a black-letter copy of the latter in the Pepys collection.
The First Part.
‘Bedekt the earth so trim and gaye,
‘And Neptune with his daintye showers
‘Came to present the monthe of Maye; ’
King Henrye rode to take the ayre,
Over the river of Thames past hee;
When eighty merchants of London came,
And downe they knelt upon their knee.
Good saylors, welcome unto mee.”
They swore by the rood, they were saylors good,
But rich merchànts they colde not bee:
“To France nor Flanders dare we pass:
Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare;
And all for a rover that lyes on the seas,
Who robbs us of our merchant ware.”
And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might,
“I thought he had not been in the world,
Durst have wrought England such unright.”
The merchants sighed, and said, alas!
And thus they did their answer frame,
Hee is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas,
And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name.
And an angrye look then looked hee:
“Have I never a lorde in all my realme,
Will fetch yon traytor unto mee?”
Yea, that dare I; lord Howard sayes;
Yea, that dare I with heart and hand;
If it please your grace to give me leave,
Myselfe wil be the only man.
Yond Scott hath numbred manye a yeare.
“Trust me, my liege, Ile make him quail,
Or before my prince I will never appeare.”
Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have,
And chuse them over my realme so free;
Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes,
To guide the great shipp on the sea.
Was the ablest gunner in all the rea'm,
Thoughe he was threescore yeeres and ten:
Good Peter Simon was his name.
Peter, sayd he, I must to the sea,
To bring home a traytor live or dead:
Before all others I have chosen thee;
Of a hundred gunners to be head.
Of a hundred gunners to be head,
Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree,
If I misse my marke one shilling bread .
My lord then chose a boweman rare,
‘Whose active hands had gained fame,’
In Yorkshire he was a gentleman borne,
And William Horseley was his name.
Go seeke a traytor on the sea,
And now of a hundred bowemen brave
To be the head I have chosen thee.
If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee
Of a hundred bowemen to be head;
On your maine-màst Ile hanged bee,
If I miss twelvescore one penny bread .
The noble Howard is gone to the sea;
With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare,
Out at Thames mouth sayled he.
And days he scant had sayled three,
Upon the ‘voyage’, he tooke in hand,
But there he met with a noble shipp,
And stoutly made it stay and stand.
Now who thou art, and what's thy name;
And shewe me where thy dwelling is:
And whither bound, and whence thou came.
My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee
With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind;
I and my shipp doe both belong
To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne.
As thou hast sayled by daye and by night,
Of a Scottish rover on the seas;
Men call him sir Andrew Barton, knighte?
Than ever he sighed, and sayd alas!
With a grieved mind, and well away!
But over-well I knowe that wight,
I was his prisoner yesterday.
A Burdeaux voyage for to fare;
To his arch-borde he clasped me,
And robd me of all my merchant ware:
And mickle debts, God wot, I owe,
And every man will have his owne;
And I am nowe to London bounde,
Of our gracious king to beg a boone.
Lett me but once that robber see,
For every penny tane thee froe
It shall be doubled shillings three.
Nowe God foresend, the merchant sayes,
That you shold seek soe far amisse!
God keepe you out o' that traitors handes!
Full litle ye wott what a man he is.
With beames on his topcastle stronge;
And thirtye pieces of ordinance
He carries on each side along:
And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight,
St. Andrewes crosse itt is his guide;
His pinnace beareth ninescore men,
And fifteen canons on each side.
I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall;
He wold orecome them every one,
If once his beames they doe downe fall.
This is cold comfort, sayes my lord,
To welcome a stranger on the sea:
Yet Ile bring him and his shipp to shore,
Or to Scotland he shall carrye mee.
And he must aim well with his ee,
And sinke his pinnace in the sea,
Or else he ne'er orecome will be:
And if you chance his shipp to borde,
This counsel I must give withall,
Let no man to his topcastle goe
To strive to let his beams downe fall.
I pray your honour lend to mee,
On each side of my shipp along,
And I will lead you on the sea.
A glasse Ile sett, that may be seene,
Whether you sayle by day or night;
And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke
You shall see Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
The Second Part.
Soe well apparent in his sight,
He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
His hatchborde it was ‘gilt’ with gold,
Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee:
Nowe by my faith, lord Howarde says,
This is a gallant sight to see.
So close that no man may them see;
And put me forth a white willowe wand,
As merchants use that sayle the sea.
But they stirred neither top, nor mast;
Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by.
What English churles are yonder, he sayd,
That can soe little curtesye?
I have beene admirall over the sea;
And never an English nor Portingall
Without my leave can passe this way.
Then called he forth his stout pinnace;
“Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee:
I sweare by the masse, yon English churles
Shall all hang at my maine-mast tree.
Full well lord Howard might it ken;
For it strake downe his fore-mast tree,
And killed fourteen of his men.
Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord,
Looke that thy word doe stand in stead;
For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang,
If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread.
His ordinance he laid right lowe;
He put in chaine full nine yardes long,
With other great shott lesse, and moe;
And he lette goe his great gunnes shott;
Soe well he settled itt with his ee,
The first sight that Sir Andrewe sawe,
He sawe his pinnace sunke i' the sea.
Lord, how his heart with rage did swell!
Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon;
Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysel.”
When my Lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose,
Within his heart hee was full faine:
“Nowe spread your ancyents, strike up drummes,
Sound all your trumpetts out amaine.”
Weale howsoever this geere will sway;
Itt is my lord admirall of Englànd,
Is come to seeke mee on the sea.
Simon had a sonne, who shott right well,
That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare;
In att his decke he gave a shott,
Killed threescore of his men of warre.
Came bravely on the other side,
Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree,
And killed fourscore men beside.
Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed,
What may a man now thinke, or say?
Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee,
He was my prisoner yesterday.
That aye wast readye at my call;
I will give thee three hundred markes,
If thou wilt let my beames downe fall.
Lord Howard hee then calld in haste,
“Horseley see thou be true in stead;
For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang,
If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread.
He swarved it with might and maine;
But Horseley with a bearing arrowe,
Stroke the Gordon through the braine;
And he fell downe to the hatches again,
And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed:
Then word went through Sir Andrews men,
How that the Gordon he was dead.
Thou art my only sisters sonne,
If thou wilt let my beames downe fall,
Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne.
With that he swarvd the maine-mast tree,
He swarved it with nimble art;
But Horseley with a broad arròwe
Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart:
That with his blood did streame amaine:
Then every Scott cryed, Well-away!
Alas a comelye youth is slaine!
All woe begone was Sir Andrew then,
With griefe and rage his heart did swell:
“Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe,
For I will to the topcastle mysel.”
That gilded is with gold soe cleare:
God be with my brother John of Barton!
Against the Portingals hee it ware;
And when he had on this armour of proofe,
He was a gallant sight to see:
Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight,
My deere brothèr, could cope with thee.”
And looke to your shaft that it goe right,
Shoot a good shoot in time of need,
And for it thou shalt be made a knight.
Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then,
Your honour shall see, with might and maine;
But if I were hanged at your maine-mast tree,
I have now left but arrowes twaine.
With right good will he swarved then:
Upon his breast did Horseley hitt,
But the arrow bounded back agen.
Then Horseley spyed a privye place
With a perfect eye in a secrette part;
Under the spole of his right arme
He smote Sir Andrew to the heart.
A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;
Ile but lye downe and bleede a while,
And then Ile rise and fight againe.
“Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew sayes,
And never flinche before the foe;
And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse
Untill you heare my whistle blowe.”
Which made their hearts waxe sore adread:
Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord,
For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead.
They boarded then his noble shipp,
They boarded it with might and maine;
Eighteen score Scotts alive they found,
The rest were either maimd or slaine.
And off he smote Sir Andrewes head;
“I must ha' left England many a daye,
If thou wert alive as thou art dead.”
He caused his body to be cast
Over the hatchborde into the sea,
And about his middle three hundred crownes:
“Wherever thou land this will burye thee.”
And backe he sayled ore the maine,
With mickle joy and triumphìng
Into Thames mouth he came againe.
Lord Howard then a letter wrote,
And sealed it with seale and ring;
“Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace,
As never did subject to a king.
A braver shipp was never none:
Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warre,
Before in England was but one.”
King Henryes grace with royall cheere
Welcomed the noble Howard home,
And where, said he, is this rover stout,
That I myselfe may give the doome?
Full many a fadom in the sea;
If he were alive as he is dead,
I must ha' left England many a day:
And your grace may thank four men i' the ship
For the victory wee have wonne,
These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt,
And Peter Simon, and his sonne.”
In lieu of what was from thee tane,
A noble a day now thou shalt have,
Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne.”
And Horseley thou shalt be a knight,
And lands and livings shalt have store;
Howard shall be earle Surrye hight,
As Howards erst have beene before.
I will maintaine thee and thy sonne:
And the men shall have five hundred markes
For the good service they have done.
Then in came the queene with ladyes fair
To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight:
They weend that hee were brought on shore,
And thought to have seen a gallant sight.
And eyes soe hallowe in his head,
I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes,
This man were alive as he is dead:
Yet for the manfull part he playd,
Which fought soe well with heart and hand,
His men shall have twelvepence a day,
Till they come to my brother kings high land.
XIII. LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.
A Scottish Song.
The subject of this pathetic ballad the Editor once thought might possibly relate to the Earl of Bothwell, and his desertion of his wife Lady Jean Gordon, to make room for his marriage with the Queen of Scots: But this opinion he now believes to be groundless; indeed earl Bothwell's age, who was upwards of 60 at the time of that marriage, renders it unlikely that he should be the object of so warm a passion as this elegy supposes. He has been since informed, that it entirely refers to a private story: A lady of quality of the name of Bothwell, or rather Boswell, having been, together with her child, deserted by her husband or lover, composed these affecting lines herself; which here are given from a copy in the Editor's folio MS. compared with another in Allan Ramsay's Miscellany.
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe:
If thoust be silent, Ile be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe,
It grieves me sair to see thee weepe.
And with his sugred wordes to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire
To me that time did not appeire:
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
Balow, &c.
And whan thou wakest, sweitly smile:
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay God forbid!
Bot yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire
Thy fatheris hart, and face to beire.
Balow, &c.
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neire depart him frae.
Balow, &c.
To faynings fals thine hart incline;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new:
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair.
Balow, &c.
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me whan cares doe grieve:
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forgeit man's cruelty.
Balow, &c.
That evir kist a womans mouth!
I wish all maides be warnd by mee
Nevir to trust mans curtesy;
For if we doe bot chance to bow,
They'le use us than they care not how.
Balow, my babe, ly stil, and sleipe,
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
When sugar was first imported into Europe, it was a very great dainty; and therefore the epithet sugred is used by all our old writers metaphorically to express extreme and delicate sweetness. (See above, p. 176.) Sugar at present is cheap and common; and therefore suggests now a coarse and vulgar idea.
XIV. THE MURDER OF THE KING OF SCOTS.
The catastrophe of Henry Stewart, lord Daruley, the unfortunate husband of Mary Q. of Scots, is the subject of this ballad. It is here related in that partial imperfect manner, in which such an event would naturally strike the subjects of another kingdom; of which he was a native. Henry appears to have been a vain capricious worthless young man, of weak understanding, and dissolute morals. But the beauty of his person, and the inexperience of his youth, would dispose mankind to treat him with an indulgence, which the cruelty of his murder would afterwards convert into the most tender pity and regret: and then imagination would not fail to adorn his memory with all those virtues, he ought to have possessed. This will account for the extravagant elogium bestowed upon him in the first stanza, &c.
Henry lord Darnley was eldest son of the earl of Lennox, by the lady Margaret Douglas, niece of Henry VIII. and daughter of Margaret queen of Scotland by the earl of Angus, whom that princess married after the death of James IV.—Darnley, who had been born and educated in England, was but in his 21st year, when he was murdered, Feb. 9. 1567–8. This crime was perpetrated by the E. of Bothwell, not out of respect to the memory of David Riccio, but in order to pave the way for his own marriage with the queen.
This ballad (printed from the Editor's folio MS.) seems to have been written soon after Mary's escape into England in 1568, see v. 65.—It will be remembered at v. 5. that this princess was Q. dowager of France, having been first married to Francis II. who died Dec. 4. 1560.
For thou hast ever wrought by sleighte;
The worthyest prince that ever was borne,
You hanged under a cloud by night.
And sealed it with harte and ringe;
And bade him come Scotland within,
And shee wold marry and crowne him kinge.
To be a prince unto a peere:
But you have heard, and soe have I,
A man may well buy gold too deare.
Was as well beloved as ever was hee,
And David Riccio was his name,
Chamberlaine to the queene was hee.
Hee wold have sate him downe i'th' chaire,
Although it beseemed him not so well,
And though the kinge were present there.
And quarrelled with him for the nonce;
And I shall tell how it befell,
Twelve daggers were in him att once.
For him her faire cheeks she did weete,
And made a vowe for a yeare and a day
The king and shee wold not come in one sheete.
And made their vow all vehementlye;
That for the death of the chamberlaine,
How hee, the king himselfe, sholde dye.
And layd greene rushes in his waye;
For the traitors thought that very night
This worthye king for to betraye.
To take his rest was his desire;
He was noe sooner cast on sleepe,
But his chamber was on a blasing fire.
And hee had thirtye foote to fall;
Lord Bodwell kept a privy watch,
All underneath the castle wall.
Now answer me, that I may know.
“King Henry the eighth my uncle was;
For his sweete sake some pitty show.”
Now answer me when I doe speake.
“Ah, lord Bodwell, I know thee well;
Some pitty on me I pray thee take.”
And as much favour show to thee,
As thou didst to the queenes chamberlaine,
That day thou deemedst him to die
Through towers and castles that were nye,
Through an arbor into an orchàrd,
There on a peare-tree hanged him hye.
How that the worthye king was slaine;
He persued the queen so bitterlye,
That in Scotland shee dare not remaine.
And here her residence hath tane;
And through the queene of Englands grace,
In England now shee doth remaine.
XV. A SONNET BY Q. ELIZABETH.
The following lines, if they display no rich vein of poetry are yet so strongly characteristic of their great and spirited authoress, that the insertion of them will be pardoned. They are preserved in Puttenham's Arte of Eng. Poesie; a book in which are many sly addresses to the queen's foible of shining as a poetess. The extraordinary manner in which these verses are introduced, shews what kind of homage was exacted from the courtly writers of those times, viz.
“I find, says this antiquated critic, none example in English metre, so well maintaining this figure [Exargasia, or the Gorgeous, Lat. Expolitio] as that dittie of her majesties owne making, passing sweete and harmonicall; which figure beyng as his very originall name purporteth the most bewtifull and gorgious of all others, it asketh in reason to be reserved for a last complement, and desciphred by a ladies penne, herselfe beyng the most bewtifull, or rather bewtie of queenes . And this was the occasion: our soveraigne lady perceiving how the Scottish queenes residence within this realme at so great libertie and ease (as were skarce meete for so great and dangerous a prysoner) bred secret factions among her people, and made many of the nobilitie incline to favour her partie: some of them desirous of innovation in the state: others aspiring to greater fortunes by her libertie and life. The queene our soveraigne ladie to declare that she was nothing ignorant of those secret practizes, though she had long with great wisdome and
This sonnet seems to have been composed in 1569, not long before the D. of Norfolk, the earls of Pembroke and Arundel, the lord Lumley, Sir Nich. Throcmorton, and others, were taken into custody. See Hume, Rapin, &c.—It was originally written in long lines or alexandrines, each of which is here divided into two.
Exiles my present joy;
And wit me warnes to shun such snares,
As threaten mine annoy.
And subject faith doth ebbe;
Which would not be if reason rul'd,
Or wisdome wev'd the webbe.
Do cloake aspiring mindes;
Which turn to raine of late repent,
By course of changed windes.
The roote of ruthe wil be;
And frutelesse all their graffed guiles,
As shortly ye shall see.
Which great ambition blindes,
Shal be unseeld by worthy wights,
Whose foresight falshood finds.
That eke discord doth sowe,
Shal reape no gaine where former rule
Hath taught stil peace to growe.
Shall ancre in this port;
Our realme it brookes no strangers force,
Let them elsewhere resort.
Shall first his edge employ,
Shall ‘quickly’ poll their toppes, that seeke
Such change, and gape for joy.
I cannot help subjoining to the above sonnet another distich of Elizabeth's preserved by Puttenham (p. 197.)
“which (says he) our soveraigne lady wrote in defiance of fortune.”
Where Vertue's force can cause her to obay.
The slightest effusion of such a mind deserves attention.
XVI. KING OF SCOTS AND ANDREW BROWNE.
This ballad is a proof of the little intercourse that subsisted between the Scots and English, before the accession of James I. to the crown of England. The tale which is here so circumstantially related does not appear to have had the least foundation in history, but was probably built upon some confused hearsay report of the tumults in Scotland during the minority of that prince, and of the conspiracies formed by different factions to get possession of his person. It should seem from ver. 102. to have been written during the regency, or at least before the death, of the earl of Morton, who was condemned and executed June 2. 1581; when James was in his 15th year.
The original copy (preserved in the archives of the Antiquarian Society London) is intitled, “A new Ballad, declaring the great treason conspired against the young king of Scots, and how one Andrew Browne an English-man, which was the king's chamberlaine, prevented the same. To the tune of Milfield, or els to Green-sleeves.” At the end is subjoined the name of the author W. Elderton.
This Elderton, who had been originally an attorney in the sheriffs courts of London, and afterwards (if we may believe Oldys) a comedian, was a facetious fuddling companion, whose tippling and his rhymes rendered him famous among his contemporaries. He was author of many popular songs and ballads; and probably other pieces in these volumes, besides the following, are of his composing. He is believed to have fallen a martyr to his bottle before the year 1592. His epitaph has been recorded by Camden, and translated by Oldys.
Quid dico hic situs est? hic potius sitis est.
Dead drunk here Elderton doth lie;
Dead as he is, he still is dry:
So of him it may well be said,
Here he, but not his thirst, is laid.
See Stow's Lond. [Guild-hall.]—Biogr. Brit. [Drayton, by Oldys, Note B.] Ath. Ox.—Camden's Remains.—The Exale-tation of Ale, among Beaumont's Poems, 8vo. 1653.
That princes subjects cannot be true,
But still the devill hath some of his,
Will play their parts whatsoever ensue;
Forgetting what a grievous thing
It is to offend the anointed king?
Alas for woe, why should it be so,
This makes a sorrowful heigh ho.
As proper a youth as neede to be,
Well given to every happy thing,
That can be in a kinge to see:
Yet that unluckie country still,
Hath people given to craftie will.
Alas for woe, &c.
A posset was made to give the king,
Whereof his ladie nurse hard tell,
And that it was a poysoned thing:
She cryed, and called piteouslie;
Now help, or els the king shall die!
Alas for woe, &c.
And hard the ladies piteous crye,
Out with his sword, and bestir'd him than,
Out of the doores in haste to flie;
But all the doores were made so fast,
Out of a window he got at last.
Alas for woe, &c.
Having the posset in his hande:
The sight of Browne made him aghast,
Who bad him stoutly staie and stand.
For feare that Browne would make a fray.
Alas for woe, &c.
Nothing at all, my friend, sayde he;
But a posset to make the king good cheere.
Is it so? sayd Browne, that will I see,
First I will have thyself begin,
Before thou go any further in;
Be it weale or woe, it shall be so,
This makes a sorrowful heigh ho.
Thou art a young man poore and bare;
Livings on thee I will bestowe:
Let me go on, take thou no care.
No, no, quoth Browne, I will not be
A traitour for all Christiantie:
Happe well or woe, it shall be so,
Drink now with a sorrowful, &c.
His belly burst and he fell downe:
A just rewarde for his traitery.
This was a posset indeed, quoth Brown!
He serched the bishop, and found the keyes,
To come to the kinge when he did please.
Alas for woe, &c.
He humbly fell uppon his knee,
And praysed God that he did misse
To tast of that extremity:
For that he did perceive and know,
His clergie would betray him so:
Alas for woe, &c.
My father and grandfather slaine:
My mother banished, O extreame!
Unhappy fate, and bitter bayne!
And now like treason wrought for me,
What more unhappie realme can be!
Alas for woe, &c.
And gave her twenty poundes a yeere;
And trustie Browne too in like case,
He knighted him with gallant geere;
And gave him ‘lands and’ livings great,
For dooing such a manly feat,
As he did showe, to the bishop's woe,
Which made, &c.
Tooke not effect of traytery;
Another treason at the last,
They sought against his majestie:
How they might make their kinge away,
By a privie banket on a daye.
Alas for woe, &c.
Beyonde the seas they had decreede:
Three noble Earles heard of this thing,
And did prevent the same with speede.
For a letter came, with such a charme,
That they should doo their king no harme:
For further woe, if they did soe,
Would make a sorrowful heigh hoe.
Take heede you do not offend the king;
But shew yourselves like honest men
Obediently in every thing:
For his godmother will not see
Her noble childe misus'd to be
With any woe; for if it be so,
She will make, &c.
In England, Scotland, every where:
To put the prince or state in feare:
That God the highest king may see
Obedience as it ought to be,
In wealth or woe, God graunt it be so
To avoide the sorrowful heigh ho.
His father was Henry Lord Darnley. His grandfather the old Earl of Lenox, regent of Scotland, and father of Lord Darnley was murdered at Stirling, Sept. 5. 1571.
XVII. THE BONNY EARL OF MURRAY.
A Scottish Song.
In December 1591, Francis Stewart Earl of Bothwell had made an attempt to seize on the person of his sovereign James VI. but being disappointed, had retired towards the north. The king unadvisedly gave a commission to George Gordon Earl of Huntley, to pursue Bothwell and his followers with fire and sword. Huntley, under cover of executing that commission, took occasion to revenge a private quarrel he had against James Stewart Earl of Murray, a relation of Bothwell's. In the night of Feb. 7. 1592, he beset Murray's house, burnt it to the ground; and slew Murray himself; a young nobleman of the most promising virtues, and the very darling of the people.
The present Lord Murray hath now in his possession a picture of his ancestor naked and covered with wounds, which had been carried about, according to the custom of that age, in order to inflame the populace to revenge his death. If this picture did not flatter, he well deserved the name of the bonny Earl, for he is there represented as a tall and comely personage. It is a tradition in the family, that Gordon of Bucky gave him a wound in the face: Murray half
K. James, who took no care to punish the murtherers, is said by some to have privately countenanced and abetted them, being stimulated by jealousy for some indiscreet praises which his Queen had too lavishly bestowed on this unfortunate youth.
Oh! whair hae ye been?
They hae slaine the Earl of Murray,
And hae laid him on the green.
And whairfore did you sae!
I bade you bring him wi' you,
But forbade you him to slay.
And he rid at the ring;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh! he might hae been a king.
And he playd at the ba';
And the bonny Earl of Murray
Was the flower among them a'.
And he playd at the gluve;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh! he was the Queenes luve.
Luke owre the castle downe ,
Ere she see the Earl of Murray
Cum sounding throw the towne.
Castle downe here has been thought to mean the Castle of Downe, a seat belonging to the family of Murray.
XVIII. YOUNG WATERS.
A Sottish Ballad.
It has been suggested to the Editor, that this ballad covertly alludes to the indiscreet partiality, which Q. Anne of Denmark is said to have shewn for the bonny Earl of Murray; and which is supposed to have influenced the fate of that unhappy nobleman. Let the Reader judge for himself.
The following account of the murder is given by a contemporary writer, and a person of credit, Sir James Balfour, Knight, Lyon King of Arms, whose MS. of the Annals of Scotland is in the Advocates library at Edinburgh.
“The seventh of Febry, this zeire, 1592, the Earle of Murray was cruelly murthered by the Earle of Huntley at his house in Dunibrissel in Fysse-shyre, and with him
The following ballad is here given from a copy printed not long since at Glasgow, in one sheet 8vo. The world was indebted for its publication to the lady Jean Hume, sister to the Earle of Hume, who died lately at Gibraltar.
And the round tables began,
A'! there is cum to our kings court
Mony a well-favourd man.
Beheld baith dale and down,
And then she saw zoung Waters
Cum riding to the town.
His horsemen rade behind,
And mantel of the burning gowd
Did keip him frae the wind.
And siller shod behind,
The horse zoung Waters rade upon
Was fleeter than the wind.
Unto the queen said he,
O tell me qhua's the fairest face
Rides in the company.
And knights of high degree;
Bot a fairer face than zoung Watèrs
Mine eyne did never see.
(And an angry man was he)
O, if he had been twice as fair,
Zou micht have excepted me.
Bot the king that wears the crown;
Theris not a knight in fair Scotland
Bot to thee maun bow down.
Appeasd he wad nae bee;
Bot for the words which she had said
Zoung Waters he maun dee.
Put fetters to his feet;
They hae taen zoung Waters, and
Thrown him in dungeon deep.
In the wind bot and the weit;
Bot I neir rade thro' Stirling town
Wi fetters at my feet.
In the wind bot and the rain;
Bot I neir rade thro' Stirling town
Neir to return again.
His zoung son to his craddle,
And they hae taen to the heiding-hill,
His horse bot and his saddle.
His lady fair to see.
And for the words the Queen had spoke,
Zoung Waters he did dee.
Heiding-hill; i.e. 'heading [beheading] hill. The place of execution was anciently an artificial hillock.
XIX. MARY AMBREE.
In the year 1584, the Spaniards, under the command of Alexander Farnese prince of Parma, began to gain great advantages in Flanders and Brabant, by recovering many strong-holds and cities from the Hollanders, as Ghent, (called then by the English Gaunt,) Antwerp, Mechlin, &c. See Stow's Annals, p. 711. Some attempt made with the assistance of English volunteers to retrieve the former of those places probably gave occasion to this ballad. I can find no mention of our heroine in history, but the following rhymes rendered her famous among our poets. Ben Johnson often mentions her, and calls any remarkable virago by her name. See his Epicæne, first acted in 1609. Act 4. sc. 2. His Tale of a Tub, Act. I. sc. 4. And his masque intitled the Fortunate Isles, 1626, where he quotes the very words of the ballad,
(Who marched so free
To the siege of Gaunt,
And death could not daunt,
As the ballad doth vaunt)
Were a braver wight, &c.
She is also mentioned in Fletcher's Scornful Lady, Act 5. sub finem.
—“My large gentlewoman, my Mary Ambree, had I but seen into you, you should have had another bedfellow.”—
This ballad is printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, improved from the Editor's folio MS. The full title is, “The valorous acts performed at Gaunt by the brave bonnie lass Mary Ambree, who in revenge of her lovers death did play her part most gallantly. The tune is, The blind beggar, &c.”
Did march to the siege of the cittye of Gaunte,
They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,
And formost in battle was Mary Ambree.
Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight,
Because he was slaine most treacherouslìe,
Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree.
In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe;
A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee;
Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?
A strong arminge sword shee girt by her side,
On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett had shee;
Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?
Bidding all such as wolde, bee of her band,
To wayt on her person came thousand and three:
Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?
Nowe followe your captaine, no longer a mayd;
Still formost in battel myselfe will I bee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Soe well thou becomest this gallant array,
Thy harte and thy weapons soe well do agree,
Noe mayden was ever like Mary Ambree.
With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife,
With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free;
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
To come into danger of death, or of thrall,
This hand and this life I will venture so free:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye;
Seven howers in skirmish continued shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
And her enemyes bodyes with bullets soe hott;
For one of her owne men a score killed shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Away all her pellets and powder had spent,
Straight with her keen weapon shee slasht him in three:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
At length she was forced to make a retyre;
Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambre?
As thinking close siege shee cold never abide;
To beate down her walles they all did decree;
But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree.
And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand,
There daring the captaines to match any three:
O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!
To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live?
Come yield thyselfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee.
Then smiled sweetlye faire Mary Ambree.
Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?
A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free,
Who shortelye with us a prisoner must bee.
Two brests in my bosome, and therfore noe knight:
Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see,
But a poor simple mayden, calld Mary Ambree.
Whose valor hath provd so undaunted in warre?
If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee,
Full well may they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.
Who long had advanced for Englands faire crowne;
Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee,
And offerd rich presents to Mary Ambree.
Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall:
A mayden of England, sir, never will bee
The whore of a monarcke, quoth Mary Ambree.
Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne:
Therfore English captaines of every degree
Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.
A common phrase in that age for a Coat of Mail. So Spencer speaker of the Irish Gallowglass or Foot-soldier as “armed in a long Shirt of Mayl.” (View of the State of Ireland.)
XX. BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY.
Peregrine Bertie lord Willoughby of Eresby had, in the year 1586, distinguished himself at the siege of Zutphen in the Low Countries. He was the year after made general of the English forces in the United Provinces, in room of the earl of Leicester, who was recalled. This gave him an opportunity of signalizing his courage and military skill in several actions against the Spaniards. One of these, greatly exaggerated by popular report, is probably the subject of this old ballad, which, on account of its flattering encomiums on English valour, hath always been a favourite with the people.
“My lord Willoughbie (says a contemporary writer) was one of the queenes best swordsmen: . . . . he was a great master of the art military. . . . . . I have heard it spoken, that had he not slighted the court, but applied himself to the queene, he might have enjoyed a plentifull portion of her grace; and it was his saying, and it did him no good, that he was none of the reptilia; intimating, that he could not creepe on the ground, and that the court was not his element; for indeed, as he was a great souldier, so he was of suitable magnanimitie, and could not brooke the obsequiousnesse and assiduitie of the court.” (Naunton.)
Lord Willoughbie died in 1601.—Both Norris and Turner were famous among the military men of that age.
The subject of this ballad (which is printed from an old black-letter copy) may possibly receive illustration from what Chapman says in the Dedicat. to his version of Homer's Frogs and Mice, concerning the brave and memorable Retreat of Sir John Norris, with only 1000 men, thro' the whole Spanish army, under the duke of Parma, for three miles together.
With glistering spear and shield,
A famous fight in Flanders
Was foughten in the field:
The most couragious officers
Were English captains three;
But the bravest man in battel
Was brave lord Willoughbèy.
A valiant man was hee;
The other captain Turner,
From field would never flee.
With fifteen hundred fighting men,
Alas! there were no more,
They fought with fourteen thousand then
Upon the bloody shore.
And look you round about:
And shoot you right you bow-men,
And we will keep them out:
You musquet and callìver men,
Do you prove true to me,
I'le be the formost man in fight.
Says brave lord Willoughbèy.
They fiercely did assail,
And fought it out most furiously,
Not doubting to prevail;
The wounded men on both sides fell
Most pitious for to see,
Yet nothing could the courage quell
Of brave lord Willoughbèy
This fight endured sore,
Until our men so feeble grew
That they could fight no more;
And then upon dead horses
Full savourly they eat,
And drank the puddle water,
They could no better get.
They kneeled on the ground,
And praised God devoutly
For the favour they had found;
And beating up their colours,
The fight they did renew,
And turning tow'rds the Spaniard,
A thousand more they slew.
And bullets thick did fly;
Then did our valiant soldiers
Charge on most furiously;
Which made the Spaniards waver,
They thought it best to flee,
They fear'd the stout behaviour
Of brave lord Willoughbèy.
Come let us march away,
I fear we shall be spoiled all
If here we longer stay;
For yonder comes lord Willoughbey
With courage fierce and fell,
He will not give one inch of way
For all the devils in hell.
Was quickly put to flight,
Our men persued couragiously,
And caught their forces quite;
But at last they gave a shout,
Which ecchoed through the sky,
God, and St. George for England!
The conquerers did cry.
With all the speed might be,
And soon our gracious queen was told
Of this same victory:
O this is brave lord Willoughbey,
My love that ever won,
Of all the lords of honour
'Tis he great deeds hath done.
And wounded in the fray,
The queen allow'd a pension
Of fifteen pence a day,
And from all costs and charges
She quit and set them free,
And this she did all for the sake
Of brave lord Willoughbèy.
And never be dismaid;
If that we but one to ten,
We will not be afraid
To fight with foraign enemies,
And set our nation free:
And thus I end the bloody bout
Of brave lord Willoughbèy.
XXI. VICTORIOUS MEN OF EARTH.
This little moral sonnet hath such a pointed application to the heroes of the foregoing and following ballads, that I cannot help placing it here, tho' the date of its composition is of a much later period. It is extracted from “Cupid and Death, a masque by J. S. [James Shirley] presented Mar. 26. 1653. London printed 1653.” 4to.
Proclaim how wide your empires are;
Though you binde in every shore,
And your triumphs reach as far
As night or day,
Yet you proud monarchs must obey,
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls yee to the croud of common men.
Each able to undo mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are:
Nor to these alone confin'd,
He hath at will
More quaint and subtle wayes to kill;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
XXII. THE WINNING OF CALES.
The subject of this ballad is the taking of the city of Cadiz, (called by our sailors corruptly Cales) on June 21. 1596, in a descent made on the coast of Spain, under the command of the Lord Howard admiral, and the Earl of Essex general.
The valour of Essex was not more distinguished on this occasion than his generosity: the town was carried sword in hand, but he stopt the slaughter as soon as possible, and treated his prisoners with the greatest humanity, and even affability and kindness. The English made a rich plunder in the city, but miss'd of a much richer, by the resolution which the Duke of Medina the Spanish admiral took, of setting fire to the ships, in order to prevent their falling into the hands of the enemy. It was computed, that the loss which the Spaniards sustained from this enterprize, amounted to twenty millions of ducats.
See Hume's Hist.The Earl of Essex knighted on this occasion not fewer than sixty persons, which gave rise to the following sarcasm,
And a laird of the North country;
But a yeoman of Kent with his yearly rent
Will buy them out all three.
The ballad is printed from the Editor's folio MS. and seems to have been composed by some person, who was concerned
Threatning our country with fire and sword;
Often preparing their navy most sumptuous
With as great plenty as Spain could afford.
Dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums;
Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes.
With knights couragious and captains full good;
The brave Earl of Essex, a prosperous general,
With him prepared to pass the salt flood.
Dub a dub, &c.
Braver ships never were seen under sayle,
With their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their head,
Now bragging Spaniard, take heed of your tayle.
Dub a dub, &c.
Where the kinges navy securelye did ride;
Being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks,
Ere any Spaniards our coming descry'd.
Dub a dub, &c.
Which at that season was made in that place;
The beacons were fyred, as need then required;
To hyde their great treasure they had little space.
Dub a dub, &c.
And how their men drowned themselves in the sea;
There might you hear them cry wayle and weep piteously,
When they saw no shift to scape thence away.
Dub a dub, &c.
Was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea;
But the St. Andrew, and eke the St. Matthew,
Wee took in fight manfullye and brought away.
Dub a dub, &c.
With horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town;
The Spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed,
Did fly for their safety, and durst not come down.
Dub a dub, &c.
Fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have;
And bè well rewarded all from the great to the small;
But see the women and children you save.
Dub a dub, &c.
Hung out flags of truce and yielded the towne;
We marched in presentlye, decking the walls on high,
With English colours which purchas'd renowne.
Dub a dub, &c.
For gold and treasure we searched each day;
In some places wè did find, pyès baking left behind,
Meate at fire rosting, and folk run away.
Dub a dub, &c.
Damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre;
Whìch soldiers mèasur'd out by the length òf their swords;
Of all commodities each had his share.
Dub a dub, &c.
March'd to the market place, where he did stand;
There many prisoneres fell to our several shares,
Many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fonde.
Dub a dub, &c.
And would not ransome their towne as they said,
With their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds,
Their joint-stools and tables a fire we made;
And when the town burned all in a flame,
With tara, tantara, away we all came.
XXIII. THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE.
This beautiful old ballad most probably took its rise from one of those descents made on the Spanish coasts in the time of queen Elizabeth; and in all likelihood from that which is celebrated in the foregoing ballad.
It is printed from an ancient black-letter copy, corrected in part by the Editor's folio MS.
How she wooed an English man?
Garments gay as rich as may be
Decked with jewels she had on.
Of a comely countenance and grace was she,
And by birth and parentage of high degree.
In his hands her life did lye;
Cupid's bands did tye them faster
By the liking of an eye.
In his courteous company was all her joy,
To favour him in any thing she was not coy.
For to set the ladies free,
With their jewels still adorned,
None to do them injury.
Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me,
O let me still sustain this kind captivity!
To a ladye in distresse;
Leave me not within this city,
For to dye in heavinesse:
Thou hast set this present day my body free,
But my heart in prison still remains with thee.
Whom thou knowst thy countrys foe?
Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee:
Serpents lie where flowers grow.”
All the harm I wishe to thee, most courteous knight,
God grant the same upon my head may fully light.
That you came on Spanish ground;
If you may our foes be termed,
Gentle foes we have you found:
With our city, you have won our hearts each one,
Then to your country bear away, that is your own.
Rest you still, and weep no more;
Of fair lovers there are plenty,
Spain doth yield you wonderous store.”
Spaniards fraught with jealousy we oft do find,
But Englishmen throughout the world are counted kind.
Thou alone enjoyst my heart;
I am lovely, young, and tender,
Love is likewise my desert:
Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest;
The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.
For to bear a woman hence;
English soldiers never carry
And such without offence.”
I'll quickly change myself, if it be so,
And like a page will follow thee, where'er thou go,
To maintain thee in this case,
And to travel is great charges,
As you know in every place.”
My chains and jewels every one shall be thy own,
And eke tèn thousand pounds in gold that lies unknown.
Many storms do there arise,
Which will be to ladies dreadful,
And force tears from watery eyes.”
Well in troth I shall endure extremity,
For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.
Here comes all that breeds the strife;
I in England have already
A sweet woman to my wife;
I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain,
Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.”
That enjoys so true a friend!
Many happy days God send her;
Of my suit I make an end:
On my knees I pardon crave for my offence,
Which did from love and true affection first commence.
Bear to her this chain of gold;
And these bracelets for a token;
Grieving that I was so bold:
All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee,
For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.
Love and all his laws defye;
In a nunnery will I shroud mee
Far from any companye:
But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this,
To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.
Farewell too my heart's content!
Count not Spanish ladies wanton,
Though to thee my love was bent:
Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!
The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladìe.
XXIV. ARGENTILE AND CURAN
—Is extracted from an ancient historical poem in XIII Books, intitled Albion's England by William Warner: “An author (says a former editor) only unhappy in the choice of his subject, and measure of his verse. His poem is an epitome of the British history, and written with great learning, sense, and spirit. In some places fine to an extraordinary degree, as I think will eminently appear in the ensuing episode [of Argentile and Curan]. A tale full of beautiful incidents, in the romantic taste, extremely affecting, rich in ornament, wonderfully various in style; and
Warner is said to have been a Warwickshire man, and to have been educated in Oxford at Magdalene Hall : in the latter part of his life he was retained in the service of Henry Cary lord Hunsdon, to whom he dedicates his poem. More of his history is not known. Tho' now his name is so seldom mentioned, his contemporaries ranked him on a level with Spenser, and called them the Homer and Virgil of their age . But Warner rather resembled Ovid, whose Metamorphosis be seems to have taken for his model, having deduced a perpetual poem from the deluge down to the æra of Elizabeth, full of lively digressions and entertaining episodes. And tho' he is sometimes harsh, affected, and obscure, he often displays a most charming and pathetic simplicity: as where he describes Eleanor's harsh treatment of Rosamond:
So dyed double red:
Hard was the heart that gave the blow,
Soft were those lippes that bled.
The edition of Albion's England here followed was printed in 4to, 1602; said in the title-page to have been “first penned and published by William Warner, and now revised and newly enlarged by the same author.” The story of Argentile and Curan is I believe the poet's own invention; it is not mentioned in any of our chronicles. It was however so much admired, that not many years after he published it, came out a larger poem on the same subject in stanzas of six lines, intitled, “The most pleasant and delightful historie of Curan a prince of Danske, and the fayre princesse
Tho' here subdivided into stanzas, Warner's metre is the old-fashioned alexandrine of 14 syllables. The reader therefore must not expect to find the close of the stanzas consulted in the pauses.
Seaven kingdoms here begonne,
Where diversly in divers broyles
The Saxons lost and wonne.
In Diria jointly raigne;
In loyal concorde during life
These kingly friends remaine.
To Edel thus he sayes;
By those same bondes of happie love,
That held us friends alwaies;
The moyetie is mine;
By God, to whom my soule must passe,
And so in time may thine;
To nourish, as thine owne,
Thy neece, my daughter Argentile,
Till she to age be growne;
And then, as thou receivest it,
Resigne to her my throne.
The testatòr he dies;
But all that Edel undertooke,
He afterwards denies.
The damsell that was growne
The fairest lady under heaven;
Whose beautie being knowne,
But none might her obtaine;
For grippell Edel to himselfe
Her kingdome sought to gaine;
And for that cause from sight of such
He did his ward restraine.
A prince in Danske, did see
The maid, with whom he fell in love,
As much as man might bee.
His saint was kept in mewe;
Nor he, nor any noble-man
Admitted to her vewe.
He pines himselfe awaye;
Anon he thought by force of arms
To win her if he maye:
Did secretly invay.
At length the high controller Love,
Whom none may disobay,
Into a kitchen drudge,
That so at least of life or death
She might become his judge.
He did his love bewray,
And tells his birth: her answer was,
She husbandles would stay.
His booty to atchieve,
Nor caring what became of her,
At last his resolution was
Some pessant should her wive.
He did observe with joye
How Curan, whom he thought a drudge,
Scapt many an amorous toye.
Promotes his vassal still,
Lest that the basenesse of the man
Should lett, perhaps, his will.
But not suspecting who
The lover was, the king himselfe
In his behalf did woe.
Unkindly takes that he
Should barre the noble, and unto
So base a match agree:
Departed thence by stealth;
Preferring povertie before
A dangerous life in wealth.
The anguish in his hart
Was more than much, and after her
From court he did depart;
His country, friends, and all,
And only minding (whom he mist)
The foundresse of his thrall.
Or court, or stately townes,
But solitarily to live
Amongst the country grownes.
Well pleased so to live,
And shepherd-like to feed a flocke
Himselfe did wholly give.
Grew almost to the waine:
But then began a second love,
The worser of the twaine.
Where Curan kept his sheepe,
Did feed her drove: and now on her
Was all the shepherds keepe.
His holy russets oft,
And of the bacon's fat, to make
His startops blacke and soft.
He left it at the folde:
Sweete growte, or whig, his bottle had,
As much as it might holde.
And cheese as white as snow,
And wildings, or the seasons fruit
He did in scrip bestow.
And sheep-hooke lay him by,
On hollow quilles of oten straw
He piped melody.
He wip'd his greasie shooes,
And clear'd the drivell from his beard,
And thus the shepheard wooes.
“As good as tooth may chawe,
“And bread and wildings souling well,
(And therewithall did drawe
“Yon crumpling ewe, quoth he,
“Did twinne this fall, and twin shouldst thou,
“If I might tup with thee.
“Too elvish and too coy:
“Am I, I pray thee, beggarly,
“That such a flocke enjoy?
“Doest hold me in disdaine
“Is brimme abroad, and made a gybe
“To all that keepe this plaine.
“Themselves as quaint) that crave
“The match, that thou, I wot not why,
“Maist, but mislik'st to have.
“Thou art a female) I,
“I know not her that willingly
“With maiden-head would die.
“And he a churle will prove:
“The craftsman hath more worke in hand,
“Then fitteth unto love:
“Suspects his wife at home:
“A youth will play the wanton; and
“An old man prove a mome.
“He doth his flocke unfold,
“And all the day on hill or plaine
“He merrie chat can hold;
“Then jogging home betime,
“He turnes a crab, or tunes a round,
“Or sings some merry ryme.
“The nut-brown bowl doth trot;
“And sitteth singing care-away,
“Till he to bed be got:
“Forgetting morrow-cares;
“Nor feares he blasting of his corne,
“Nor uttering of his wares;
“Or cracke of credit lost:
“Shall still defray the cost.
“More quiet nights and daies
“The shepheard sleeps and wakes, than he
“Whose cattel he doth graize.
“A man, and so am I:
“Content is worth a monarchie,
“And mischiefs hit the hie;
“Not dwelling far from hence,
“Who left a daughter, save thyselfe,
“For fair a matchless wench.”—
Here did he pause, as if his tongue
Had done his heart offence.
Did egge him on to tell
How faire she was, and who she was.
“She bore, quoth he, the bell
“I know what beautie is;
“Or did I not, at seeing thee,
“I senceles were to mis.
“Well graced; and her wit
“To marvell at, not meddle with,
“As matchless I omit.
“A forehead smooth, and hie,
“An even nose; on either side
“Did shine a grayish eie:
“White just-set teeth within;
“A mouth in meane; and underneathe
“A round and dimpled chin.
“Stood bolt upright upon
“Her portly shoulders: beating balles
“Her veined breasts, anon
“Her middle falling still,
“And rising whereas women rise:—
“—Imagine nothing ill.
“Had white and azure wrists;
“And slender fingers aunswere to
“Her smooth and lillie fists.
“Conjecture of the rest:
“For amorous eies, observing forme,
“Think parts obscured best.
“Her tong of speech was spare;
“But speaking, Venus seem'd to speake,
“The balle from Ide to bear.
“Herselfe contends in face;
“Wheare equall mixture did not want
“Of milde and stately grace.
“Were chearefull unto all:
“Even such as neither wanton seeme,
“Nor waiward; mell, nor gall.
“And not disdaining any;
“Not gybing, gadding, gawdy, and
“Sweete faculties had many.
“Might praise, might wish, might see;
“For life, for love, for forme; more good,
“More worth, more faire than shee.
“Save only she was such:
“Of Argentile to say the most,
“Were to be silent much.”
But worthles of such praise,
The neatresse said: and muse I do,
A shepheard thus should blaze
The ‘coate’ of beautie . Credit me,
Thy latter speech bewraies
But wherefore dost thou weepe?
The shepheard wept, and she was woe,
And both doe silence keepe.
“As seeming I professe:
“But then for her, and now for thee,
“I from myselfe digresse.
“A recreant to be)
“I loved her, that hated love,
“But now I die for thee.
“And Curan is my name,
“Till love contrould the same:
“What ailest thou to weepe?”
The damsell wept, and he was woe,
And both did silence keepe.
That you did love so much:
But whom your former could not move,
Your second love doth touch.
Submitteth her to thee,
And for thy double love presents
Herself a single fee,
In passion not in person chaung'd,
And I, my lord, am she.
And silent for a space,
When as the extasie had end,
Did tenderly imbrace;
And for their wedding, and their wish
Got fitting time and place.
Was named so this land)
Then Curan had an hardier knight;
Whose sheep-hooke laid apart, he then
Had higher things in hand.
In Argentile her right,
He warr'd in Diria , and he wonne
Bernicia too in fight:
At once his life and crowne,
And of Northumberland was king,
Long raigning in renowne.
During the Saxon heptarchy, the kingdom of Northumberland (consisting of 6 northern counties, besides part of Scotland) was for a long time divided into two lesser sovereignties, viz. Deïra (called here Diria) which contained the southern parts, and Bernicia, comprehending those which lay north.
During the Saxon heptarchy, the kingdom of Northumberland (consisting of 6 northern counties, besides part of Scotland) was for a long time divided into two lesser sovereignties, viz. Deïra (called here Diria) which contained the southern parts, and Bernicia, comprehending those which lay north.
XXV. CORIN'S FATE.
Only the three first stanzas of this song are ancient; these are extracted from the quarto MS. mentioned in vol. I. p. 66. As they seemed to want application, this has been attempted by a modern hand.
Whither wilt thou drive thy flocke?
Little foode is on the plaine;
Full of danger is the rocke:
Forests tangled are with brakes:
Meadowes subject are to floodes;
Moores are full of miry lakes.
Forest, moore, and meadow-ground,
Hunger will as surely kill:
How may then reliefe be found?
Since my waywarde love begunne,
Equall doubts begett debate
What to seeke, and what to shunne.
Yet to speke will move disdaine:
If I see her not I bleed,
Yet her sight augments my paine.
Tell me, shepherdes, quicklye tell;
For to linger thus in woe
Is the lover's sharpest hell.
XXVI. JANE SHORE.
Tho' so many vulgar errors have prevailed concerning this celebrated courtezan, no charactér in history has been more perfectly handed dewn to us. We have her portrait drawn by two masterly pens; the one has delineated the features of her person, the other those of her character and story. Sir Thomas More drew from the life, and Drayton has copied an original picture of her. The reader will pardon the length of the quotations, as they serve to correct many popular mistakes relating to her catastrophe. The first is from Sir Thomas More's history of Rich. III. written in 1513, about thirty years after the death of Edw. IV.
“Now then by and by, as it wer for anger, not for covetise, the protector sent into the house of Shores wife (for her husband dwelled not with her) and spoiled her of al that ever she had, (above the value of 2 or 3 thousand marks) and sent her body to prison. And when he had a while laide unto her, for the maner sake, that she went about to bewitch him, and that she was of counsel with the lord chamberlein to destroy him: in conclusion when that no colour could fasten upon these matters, then he layd heinously to her charge the thing that herselfe could not deny, that al the world wist was true, and that natheles every man laughed at to here it then so sodainly so highly taken,—that she was naught of her body. And for thys cause (as a goodly continent prince, clene and fautles of himself, sent oute of heaven into this vicious wórld for the amendment of mens maners) he caused the bishop of London to put her to open penance, going before the crosse in procession upon a sonday with a taper
“This woman was born in London, worshipfully frended, honestly brought up, and very wel maryed, saving somewhat to soone; her husbande an honest citizen, yonge, and goodly, and of good substance. But for as muche as they were coupled ere she wer wel ripe, she not very fervently loved, for whom she never longed. Which was happely the thinge, that the more easily made her encline unto the king's appetite, when he required her. Howbeit the respect of his royaltie, the hope of gay apparel, ease, plesure, and other wanton welth, was able soane to perse a soft tender hearte. But when the king had abused her, anon her husband (as he was an honest man, and one that could his good, not presuming to touch a kinges concubine) left her up to him al together. When the king died, the lord chamberlen [Hastings] toke her : which in the kinges daies, albeit he was sore enamoured upon her, yet he forbare
“Proper she was, and faire: nothing in her body that you wold have changed, but if you would have wished her somewhat higher. Thus say thei that knew her in her youthe. Albeit some that now see her (for yet she liveth) deme her never to have bene wel visaged. Whose jugement seemeth me somewhat like, as though men should gesse the bewty of one longe before departed, by her scalpe taken out of the charnel-house; for now is she old, lene, withered, and dried up, nothing left but ryvilde skin, and hard bone. And yet being even such, whose wel advise her visage, might gesse and devise which partes how filled, wold make it a faire face.
“Yet delited not men so much in her bewty, as in her pleasant behaviour. For a proper wit had she, and could both rede wel and write; mery in company, redy and quick of aunswer, neither mute nor ful of bable; sometime taunting without displeasure, and not without disport. The king would say, That he had three concubines, which in three divers properties diversly excelled. One the meriest, another the wiliest, the thirde the holiest harlot in his realme, as one whom no man could get out of the church lightly to any place, but it wer to his bed. The other two wer somwhat greater personages, and natheles of their humilite content to be nameles, and to forbere the praise of those properties; but the meriest was the Shoris wife, in whom the king therfore toke special pleasure. For many he had, but her he loved, whose favour, to sai the trouth (for sinne it wer to belie the devil) she never abused to any mans hurt, but to many a mans comfort and relief. Where the king toke displeasure, she would mitigate and appease his mind: where men were out of favour, she wold bring them in his grace: for many, that had highly offended, shee obtained pardon: of great forfeitures she gate men remission: and finally in many weighty sutes she stode many men in gret stede, either for none or very smal rewardes,
“I doubt not some shal think this woman too sleight a thing to be written of, and set amonge the remembraunces of great matters: which thei shal specially think, that happely shal esteme her only by that thei now see her. But me semeth the chaunce so much the more worthy to be remembred, in how much she is now in the more beggerly condicion, unfrended and worne out of acquaintance, after good substance, after as grete favour with the prince, after as grete sute and seeking to with al those, that in those days had busynes to spede, as many other men were in their times, which be now famouse only by the infamy of their il dedes. Her doinges were not much lesse, albeit thei be muche lesse remembred because thei were not so evil. For men use, if they have an evil turne, to write it in marble; and whoso doth us a good tourne, we write it in duste . Which is not worst proved by her; for at this daye shee beggeth of many at this daye living, that at this day had begged, if shee had not bene.”
See More's workes, folio, bl. let. 1557. pag. 56. 57.Drayton has written a poetical epistle from this lady to her royal lover, in his notes on which he thus draws her portrait. “Her stature was meane, her haire of a dark yellow, her face round and full, her eye gray, delicate harmony being betwixt each part's proportion, and each
The following ballad is printed from an old black letter copy in the Pepys collection. Its full title is, “The woefull lamentation of Jane Shore, a goldsmith's wife in London, sometime king Edward IV. his concubine. To the tune of Live with me, &c [See the first volume.] To every stanza is annexed the following burthen:
For love and beauty will have end.
Had cause her sorrowes to declare,
Then let Jane Shore with sorrowe sing,
That was beloved of a king.
Was loved dear of lord and knight;
But yet the love that they requir'd,
It was not as my friends desir'd.
A husband for me did obtaine;
And I, their pleasure to fulfille,
Was forc'd to wedd against my wille.
Till lust brought ruine to my life;
And then my life I lewdlye spent,
Which makes my soul for to lament.
As London yet can witness welle;
Where many gallants did beholde
My beautye in a shop of golde.
Some sweet and secret friende to wooe,
Because chast love I did not finde
Agreeing to my wanton minde.
Into the eares of Englandes king,
Who came and lik'd, and love requir'd,
But I made coye what he desir'd:
Whose friendship I esteemed deare,
Did saye, It was a gallant thing
To be beloved of a king.
For to defile my marriage-bed,
And wronge my wedded husband Shore,
Whom I had married yeares before.
That I had made so sweet a choice;
And therefore did my state resigne,
To be king Edward's concubine.
To reape the pleasures of content;
There had the joyes that love could bring,
And knew the secrets of a king.
Commanding Edward with mine eye,
For Mrs. Blague I in short space
Obtainde a livinge from his grace.
I made unto promotion climbe;
But yet for all this costlye pride,
My husbande could not mee abide.
His heart with deadlye griefe did sting;
From England then he goes away
To end his life beyond the sea.
Impaired by my wanton shame;
Although a prince of peerlesse might
Did reape the pleasure of his right.
With lords and ladies of great sorte;
And when I smil'd all men were glad,
But when I frown'd my prince grewe sad.
To helplesse people, that were poore;
I still redrest the orphans crye,
And sav'd their lives condemnd to dye.
I succour'd babes of tender yeares;
And never look'd for other gaine
But love and thankes for all my paine.
And then my dayes of woe grew nighe;
When crook-back Richard got the crowne,
King Edwards friends were soon put downe.
That I so long had lived in;
Yea, every one that was his friend,
This tyrant brought to shamefull end.
That made a strumpet of a wife,
I penance did in Lombard-street,
In shamefull manner in a sheet.
Who late in court my credit knewe;
Which made the teares run down my face,
To thinke upon my foul disgrace.
My goodes, my livings, and my fee,
And charg'd that none should me relieve,
Nor any succour to me give.
To whom my jewels I had sent,
In hope therebye to ease my want,
When riches fail'd, and love grew scant:
When in my need for them I came;
To recompence my former love,
Out of her doores shee did me shove.
Which now my soul repents too late;
Therefore example take by mee,
For friendship parts in povertìe.
Whom I before had seen distrest,
And sav'd his life, condemn'd to die,
Did give me food to succour me:
That he was hanged for that deed;
His death did grieve me so much more,
Than had I dyed myself therefore.
Durst not afford mee any food;
Whereby I begged all the day,
And still in streets by night I lay.
Were turn'd to simple garments old;
My chains and gems and golden rings,
To filthy rags and loathsome things.
For leading such a wicked life;
Both sucking babes and children small,
Did make their pastime at my fall.
Whereby my hunger might be sed:
Nor drink, but such as channels yield,
Or stinking ditches in the field.
I yielded up my vital strength
Within a ditch of loathsome scent,
Where carrion dogs did much frequent:
Is Shoreditch call'd, as writers saye ,
Which is a witness of my sinne,
For being concubine to a king.
Be you assur'd that God is just;
Whoredome shall not escape his hand,
Nor pride unpunish'd in this land.
That yielded only to a king,
How shall they scape that daily run
To practise sin with every one?
Lest some disliking after prove;
Women, be warn'd when you are wives,
What plagues are due to sinful lives:
Then, maids and wives, in time amend,
For love and beauty will have end.
After the death of Hastings, she was kept by the marquis of Dorset, son to Edward IV's queen. In Rymer's Fœdera is a proclamation of Richard's, dated at Leicester, Oct. 23. 1483. wherein a reward of 1000 marks in money, or 100 a year in land is offered for taking “Thomas late marquis of Dorset,” who “not having the fear of God, nor the salvation of his own soul, before his eyes, has damnably debauched and defiled many maids, widows, and wives, and lived in actual adultery with the wife of Shore.” Buckingham was at that time in rebellion, but as Dorset was not with him, Richard could not accuse him of treason, and therefore made a handle of these pretended debaucheries to get him apprehended.
Vide Rym. Fæd. tom. xij. pag. 204.These words of Sir Thomas More probably suggested to Shakespeare that proverbial reflection, in Hen. viij. Act. 4. sc. 11.
“We write in water.”
Shakesp. in his play of Rich. III. follows More's Hist. of that reign, and therefore could not but see this passage.
But it had this name long before; being so called from its being a common SEWER (vulgarly SHORE) or drain. See Stow.
XXVII. CORYDON'S DOLEFUL KNELL.
This little simple elegy is given, with some corrections, from two copies, one of which is in “The golden garland of princely delights.”
The burthen of the song, Ding Dong, &c. is at present appropriated to burlesque subjects, and therefore may excite only ludicrous ideas in a modern reader; but in the time of our poet it usually accompanied the most solemn and mournful strains. Of this kind is that fine aerial Dirge in Shakespear's Tempest,
“Of his bones are corrall made;
“Those are pearles that were his eyes;
“Nothing of him, that doth fade,
“But doth suffer a sea-change
“Into something rich and strange:
“Harke now I heare them, Ding dong bell.”
[“Burthen, Ding dong.”]
I make no doubt but the poet intended to conclude this air in a manner the most solemn and expressive of melancholy.
For evermore farewel!
Ay me! I've lost my true love,
And thus I ring her knell,
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong,
My Phillida is dead!
I'll stick a branch of willow
At my fair Phillis' head.
Our bridal bed was made:
But 'stead of silkes so gay,
She in her shroud is laid.
Ding, &c.
By maides in fair array,
Till th'obsequies are ended,
And she is wrapt in clay.
Ding, &c.
By youths, that do excell:
And when that she is buried,
I thus will ring her knell,
Ding, &c.
By art and natures skill,
Of sundry-colour'd flowers,
In token of good-will :
Ding, &c.
On it I will bestow;
But chiefly black and yellowe
With her to grave shall go.
Ding, &c.
The rarest ever seen
And with my tears, as showers,
I'll keepe them fresh and green.
Ding, &c.
Set forth with curious art ,
Her image shall be painted
On my distressed heart.
Ding, &c.
Her epitaph so faire,
“Here lies the loveliest maiden,
“That e'er gave shepheard care.
Ding, &c.
Blacke shall be all my weede,
Ay me! I am forlorne.
Now Phillida is dead.
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong,
My Phillida is dead!
I'll stick a branch of willow
At my fair Phillis' head.
It is a custom in many parts of England, to carry a fine garland before the corpse of a woman who dies unmarried.
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