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1. [The First Part.]

1. A Mournfull Dittie, on the death of Rosamond, King Henry the seconds Concubine.

[_]

To the Tune of When flying Fame.

When as King Henry rul'd this land,
the second of that name,
Besides the Queene he deerely lou'd
a faire and Princely Dame.
Most peerelesse was her beauty found,
her fauour and her face:
A sweeter creature in this world,
did neuer Prince embrace.
Her crisped locks like threds of Gold,
appeared to each mans sight:
Her comely eyes like Orient pearles,
did cast a heauenly light.
The bloud within her Christall cheekes,
did such a colour driue:

As though the Lilly and Rose,
for maistership did striue.
Yet Rosamond, faire Rosamond,
her name was called so:
To whom Dame Elinor the Queene,
was knowne a cruell foe.
The King therefore for her defence,
against the furious Queene,
At Woodstocke builded such a bower,
the like was neuer seene.
Most curiously this Bower was built
of stone and timber strong,
An hundred and fifty doores,
did to that bower belong.
And they so cunningly contriu'd
with turnings round about,
That none but with a clew of threed,
could enter in or out.
And for his loue and Ladies sake,
that was so faire and bright:
The keeping of that bower he gaue,
vnto a valiant Knight.
But fortune that doth often frowne,
where she before did smile:
The Kings delight, the Ladies ioy,

full soone she did beguile.
For while the Kings vngracious sonne,
whom he did high aduance:
Against his Father raised warre,
within the Realme of France.
But yet our comely king,
the English land forsooke:
Of Rosamond his Lady faire,
his farewell thus he tooke.
My Rosamond, the onely Rose
that pleaseth best mine eye:
The fairest Rose in all the world
to feed my fantasie.
The flower of mine afflicted heart,
whose sweetnesse doth excell:
My royall Rose a thousand times,
I bid thee now farwell.
For I must leaue my fairest flower,
my sweetest Rose a space.
And crosse the seas to famous France,
proud Rebels to abase.
But yet my Rose be sure thou shalt
my coming shortly see:
And in my heart while hence I am
Ile beare my Rose with me

When Rosamond the Lady bright,
did heare the king say so:
The sorrow of her grieued heart,
her outward lookes did show.
And from her cleare and cristall eyes,
the teares gusht out apace:
Which like a siluer pearled dew,
ran downe her comly face.
Her lips like to a Corall red,
did wax both wan and pale,
And for the sorrow she conceiu'd
her vitall spirits did faile.
So falling downe all in a swoond
before King Henries face:
Full oft betweene his Princely armes,
her corpes he did embrace.
And twenty times with watry eyes,
he kist her tender cheeke:
Untill she had receiu'd againe
her senses mild and meeke.
Why grieues my Rose, my sweetest Rose
the King did euer say;
Because, quoth she, to bloudy warres,
my Lord must part away.
But sith your grace in forren coast,

among your foes vnkind.
Must go hazard life and limbe,
why should I stay behind;
Nay rather let me like a Page,
your shield and Target beare,
That on my brest the blow may light,
that should annoy you there.
O let me in your Royall Tent,
prepare your bed at night:
And with sweet baths refresh your Grace
at your returne from fight.
So I your presence may enioy,
no toyle I must refuse:
But wanting you my life is death,
which doth true loue abuse.
Content thy selfe my dearest loue,
thy rest at home shall be:
In Englands sweet and pleasant soile,
for trauel fits not thee.
Faire Ladies brooke not bloudy warrs,
sweet peace their pleasure breede:
The nourisher of hearts content,
which fancy first doth feed.
My Rose shall rest in Woodstocke Bower,
with Musickes sweet delight:

While I among the piercing pikes,
against my foes do fight.
My Rose in robes and pearles of Gold,
with Diamonds richly dite:
Shall dance the Galliard of my loue,
While I my foes do smite.
And you Sir Thomas, whom I trust,
to be my loues defence:
Be carefull of my gallant Rose,
when I am parted hence.
And therewithall he fetcht a sigh,
as though his heart would breake:
And Rosamond for inward griefe,
not one plaine word could speake.
For at his parting well they might,
in heart be grieued sore:
After that day, faire Rosamond
the King did see no more.
For when his grace had past the seas,
and into France was gone:
Queene Elinor with enuious heart,
to Woodstocke came anon.
And forth she cal'd this trusty Knight,
which kept this curious Bower:
UUho with his clew of twined thred,

came from that famous flower.
And when that they had wounded him
the Queene his thred did get:
And came where Lady Rosamond
was like an Angell set.
But when the Queene with stedfast eyes
beheld her heauenly face:
She was amazed in her mind,
at her exceeding grace.
Cast off thy Robes from thee, she said,
that rich and costly be:
And drinke thee vp this deadly draught
which I haue brought for thee.
But presently vpon her knee,
sweet Rosamond did fall:
And pardon of the Queene she crau'd,
for her offences all.
Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,
faire Rosamond did cry:
And let me not with poyson strong,
enforced be to dye.
I will renounce this sinfull life,
and in a Cloister bide:
Or else be banisht if you please,
to range the world so wide.

And for the fault that I haue done,
though I were forc't thereto:
Preserure my life and punish me,
as you thinke best to do.
And with these words, her Lilly hands
she rung full often there:
And downe along her louely cheekes,
proceeded many a teare.
But nothing could this furious Queene
therewith appeased be:
The cup of deadly poyson fil'd,
as she sat on her knee.
She gaue this comely Dame to drinke,
who tooke it from her hand:
And from her bended knee arose,
and on her feet did stand.
And casting vp her eyes to Heauen,
she did for mercy call:
And drinking vp the poyson then,
her life she lost with all.
And when that death through euery limbe,
had done his greatest spight:
Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse,
she was a glorious wight.
Her body then they did intombe,

when life was fled away:
At Godstow neere to Oxford Towne
as may be seene this day.
FINIS.

2. A New Sonnet,

conteining the Lamentation of Shores wife, who was sometime Concubine to King Edward the fourth, setting forth her great fall, and withall her most miserable and wretched end.

[_]

To the tune of, the hunt is vp.

Listen faire Ladies
Unto my misery:
That liued late in pompous state,
most delightfully.
And now by Fortunes faire dissimulation,
Brought to cruell and vncouth plagues,
most spightfully.
Shores wife I am,
So knowne by name:
And at the Flower-de-luce in Cheapside
was my dwelling:
The only daughter of a wealthy merchant man,

Against whose counsel euermore
I was rebelling.
Yong was I loued;
No affection moued
My heart or mind to giue or yeeld
to their consenting.
My Parents thinking richly for to wed me,
Forcing me to that which caused
My repenting.
Then being wedded,
I was quickly tempted,
My beauty caused many Gallants
to salute me.
The king commanding, I straight obayed:
For his chiefest iewel then,
he did repute me.
Braue was I trained,
Like a Queene I raigned,
And many poore mens suits
by me was obtained.
In al the Court to none was such resort
As vnto me, though now in scorne,
I be disdained.
When the King dyed,

My griefe I tryed:
From the Court I was expelled,
with dispight.
The Duke of Gloster being Lord Protector,
Tooke away my goods, against
all law and right.
In a Procession,
For my transgression,
Bare foot he made me go,
for to shame me.
A Crosse before me there was carried plainly,
As a pennance for my former life,
so to tame me.
Then through London,
Being thus vndone,
The Lord Protector published,
a Proclamation:
On paine of death I should not be harbord,
Which furthermore increast my sorrow
and vexation.
I that had plenty,
And dishes dainty:
Most sumptuously brought to my hoord
at my pleasure:
Being full poore, from doore to doore,

I begd my bread with clacke and dish,
at my leasure.
My riche attire,
By fortunes yre,
To rotten rags and nakednesse
they are beaten.
My body soft, which the King embraced oft,
With vermine vile annoyd
and eaten.
On stalls and stones,
Did lye my bones,
That wonted was in beds of downe
to be placed.
And you see my finest pillowes be,
Of stinking straw, both dirt and dung,
thus disgraced.
Wherefore Faire Ladies,
With your sweet babies,
My grieuous fall beare in your mind,
and behold me:
How strange a thing, that the loue of a King,
Should come to dye vnder a stall,
as I told yee.
FINIS.

3. A new Song of King Edgar,

King of England, how he was depriued of a Lady, which he loued, by a Knight of his Court.

[_]

To be sung in the old ancient sort, or else to the Tune of Labandalashot.

When as King Edgar did gouerne this land,
adowne, adowne, downe, down, down,
And in the strength of his yeeres did stand, call him downe a
Such praise was spread of a gallant Dame,
Which did through England carry great fame,
And she a Lady of noble degree.
The Earle of Deuonshires daughter was she,
The King which lately had buried his Queene,
And not long time had a Widdower beene.
Hearing this praise of this gallant Maid,
Upon her beauty his loue he laide,
And in his sighes he wold often say,
I will go send for that Lady gay:
Yea I will go send for that Lady bright,
Which is my treasure and delight:
Whose beauty like to Phœbus beames,
Doth glister through all Christian Realmes,

Then to himselfe he would reply,
Saying, How fond a Prince am I,
To cast my loue so base and low,
Upon a Gyrle I do not know?
King Edgar will his fancy frame,
To loue some peerelesse Princely Dame,
The daughter of a royall King,
That may a worthy dowry bring:
Whose matchlesse beauty brought in place,
May Estrilds colour cleane disgrace.
But senselesse man, what de I meane,
Upon a broken reede to leane:
Or what fond fury doth me moue
Thus to abase my dearest Loue?
Whose visage grac't with heauenly hue
Doth Helens honour quite subdue.
The glory of her beauties pride,
Sweet Estrilds fauour doth deride.
Then pardon my vnseemely speech,
Deare loue and Lady I beseech:
For I my thoughts will henceforth frame.
To spread the honour of thy name.
Then vnto him he cal'd a Knight,
Which was most trusty in his sight,
And vnto him thus did he say:
To Earle Orgarus go thy way,
Where aske for Estrilds comely Dame,
Whose beauty went so farre by Fame.

And if thou find her comely grace,
As Fame hath spred in euery place:
Then tell her Father she shall be
My crowned Queene, if she agree.
The Knight in message did proceed,
And into Deuonshire with speed:
But when he saw the Lady bright,
He was so raui t at her sight,
That nothing could his passion moue,
Except he might obtaine her loue:
For day and night while there he staid,
He courted still this peerelesse Maid:
And in his suit he shewed such skill,
That at the length won her good will,
Forgetting quite the duty tho,
Which he vnto the King did owe.
Then comming home vnto his Grace,
He told him with dissembling face,
That these reporters were too blame,
That so aduanc't that Maidens name.
For I assure your Grace, quoth he,
She is as other women bee:
Her beauty of such great report,
No better then the common sort,
And farre vnmeet in euery thing,
To match with such a Noble King.
But though her face be nothing faire,
Yet sith she is her Fathers heire,

Perhaps some Lord of high degree,
Would very faine her husband be:
Then if your Grace would giue consent,
I would my selfe be well content,
The Damsell for my wife to take,
For her great Lands and Liuings sake.
The King whom thus he did deceiue,
Incontinent did giue him leaue:
For on that point he did not stand,
For why, he had no need of Land.
Then being glad he went his way,
And wedded straight that Lady gay:
The fairest creature bearing life,
Had this false Knight vnto his wife:
And by that match of high degree,
An Earle soone after that was he.
Ere he long time had married beene,
That many had her beauty seene:
Her praise was spred both farre and neere,
The King againe thereof did heare:
Who then in heart did plainely proue,
He was betrayed of his loue.
Though thereat he was vexed sore,
Yet seem'd he not to grieue therefore,
But kept his countenance good and kinde,
As though he bare no grudge in minde.
But on a day it came to passe,
When as the King full mercy was,

To Ethelwood in sport he said,
I muse what cheere there would be made,
If to thy house I should resort,
A night or two for Princely sport:
Hereat the Earle shewd countenance glad,
Though in his heart he was sore sad:
Saying, Your Grace should welcome be,
If so your Grace would honour me.
When as the day appointed was,
Before the King did thither passe,
The Earle beforehand did prepare,
The Kings comming to declare:
And with a countenance passing grim,
He cal'd his Lady vnto him.
Saying with sad and heauy cheare,
I pray you when the King comes here,
Sweet Lady as you tender me,
Let your attire but homely be:
Nor wash not thou thine Angels face,
But doe thy beauty quith disgrace.
Thereto thy gesture so apply,
It may seeme lothsome to the eye.
For if the King should there behold
Thy glorious beauty so extold:
Then should my life soone shortned be,
For my deserts and trechery.
When to thy Father first I came,
Though I did not declare the same,

Yet was I put in trust to bring
The ioyfull tyding from the King,
Who for thy glorious beauty seene,
Did thinke of thee to make his Queene:
But when I had thy person found,
Thy beauty gaue me such a wound,
No rest nor comfort could I take,
Till you, sweet loue, my griefe did slake:
And thus, though duty charged me,
Most faithfull to my Lord to be:
Yet loue vpon the other side,
Bade for my selfe I should prouide:
Then for my suit and seruice showne,
At length I won you for mine owne,
And for your loue and wedlocke spent,
Your choise you need no whit repent.
Then sith my griefe I haue exprest,
Sweet Lady, grant me my request.
Good words she gaue with smiling cheere,
Musing at that which she did heare;
And casting many things in mind,
Great fault herewith she seem'd to find:
But in her selfe she thought it shame,
To make that foule which God did frame:
Most costly robes and rich therefore,
In brauest sort that day she wore:
Doing all things that ere she might,
To set her beauty forth to sight.

And her best skill in euery thing,
She shewed to entertaine the King,
Whereby the King so shared was,
That reason quite from him did passe:
His heart by her was set on fire,
He had to her a great desire,
And for the lookes he gaue her then,
For euery looke she lent him ten:
Wherefore the King perceiued plaine,
His loue and lookes were not in vaine.
Upon a time it chanced so,
The King he would a hunting goe,
And as they through a wood did ride,
The Earle on horseback by his side:
For so the story telleth plaine,
That with a shaft the Earle was slaine.
So when that he had lost his life,
He tooke the Damsell unto wife,
Who married her, all shame to shunne,
By whom he did beget a sonne:
Thus he that did the King deceiue,
Did by desert this death receiue.
Then to conclude and make an end,
Be true and faithfull to thy friend.
FINIS.

4
How Couentry was made free by Godina, Countesse of Chester.

[_]

To the tune of Prince Arthur died at Ludlow.

Leofricus the Noble Earle
Of Chester, as I reade,
Did for the City of Couentry,
Many a noble deed.
Great priuiledges for the towne,
This Nobleman did get,
And of all things did make it so,
That they tole-free did sit:
Saue onely that for horses still,
They did some custome pay,
Which was great charges to the towne
Full long and many a day.
Wherefore his wife, Godina faire,
Did of the Earle request,
That therefore he would make it free,
As well as all the rest.
So when the Lady long had sued,
Her purpose to obtaine:
Her Noble Lord at length she tooke,
Within a pleasant vaine,

And vnto him with smiling cheare,
She did forthwith proceed,
Entreating greatly that he would
Performe that goodly deed.
You moue me much, faire Dame (quoth he,)
Your suit I faine would shunne:
But what would you performe and do,
To haue this matter done?
Why, any thing, my Lord, quoth she,
You will with reason craue,
I will performe it with good will,
If I my wish may haue.
If thou wilt grant one thing, said he,
Which I shall now require,
So soone as it is finished,
Thou shalt haue thy desire.
Command what you thinke good, my Lord,
I will thereto agree:
On that condition that this Towne
For euer may be free.
If thou wilt strip thy clothes off,
And here wilt lay them downe,
And at noone day on horse backe ride
Starke naked thorow the Towne,
They shall be free for euer more:
If thou wilt not do so,
More liberty then now they haue,
I neuer will bestow.

The Lady at this strange demand,
Was much abasht in mind:
And yet for to fulfill this thing,
She neuer a whit repinde.
Wherefore to all the Officers
Of all the Towne she sent:
That they perceiuing her good will,
Which for the weale was bent,
That on the day that she should ride,
All persons thorow the Towne,
Should keepe their houses, and shut their doores,
And clap their windowes downe,
So that no creature yong or old
Should in the street be seene:
Till she had ridden all about,
Throughout the City cleane.
And when the day of riding came,
No person did her see,
Sauing her Lord: after which time,
The towne was euer free.
FINIS.

5
How the Dukes daughter of Cornwall being married vnto King Locrine, was by him put away, and a strange Lady whom he better loued, hee married, and made her his Queene, and how his wife was auenged.

[_]

To the tune of, in Creete.

When Humber in his wrathfull rage,
King Albanacke in field had slaine,
Those bloody broiles for to asswage,
King Locrine then applyed his paine,
And with an hoast of Brittaines stout,
At length he found King Humber out.
At vantage great he met him then,
And with his hoast beset him so,
That he destroy'd his warlike men,
And Humbers power did ouerthrow:
And Humber, which for feare did flie,
Leapt into a Riuer desperately.
And being drowned in the deepe,

He left a Lady there aliue,
Which sadly did lament and weepe,
For feare they should her life depriue:
But for her face that was so faire,
The King was caught in Cupids snare.
He tooke this Lady to his loue,
Who secretly did keepe her still:
So that the Queene did quickly proue,
The King did beare her [illeg.]all good will:
Which though in wedlockes late begun,
He had by her a gallant sonne.
Queene Guendoline was grieu'd in minde,
To see the King was altered so:
At length the cause she chanc'd to finde,
Which brought her to most bitter woe:
For Estrild was his ioy (God wot)
By whom a Daughter he begot.
The Duke of Cornwall being dead,
The Father of that Gallant Queene:
The King with lust being ouerled,
His lawfull wife he cast off cleane:
Who with her deare and tender sonne,
For succour did to Cornewall runne.
Then Locrine crowned Estrild bright,

And made of her his lawfull wife,
With her which was his hearts delight,
He thought to lead a pleasant life:
Thus Guendoline as one forlorne,
Was of her husband held in scorne.
But when the Cornish men did know
The great abuse she did endure:
With her a number great did goe,
Which she by prayers did procure:
In battell then they march along
For to redresse this grieuous wrong.
And neere a riuer called Store,
The King with all his hoast she met:
Where both the armies fought full sore,
But the Queene the field did get:
Yet ere they did the conquest gaine,
The King was with an arrow slaine.
Then Guendoline did take in hand,
Untill her sonne was come to age,
The gouernment of all the Land:
But first her fury to asswage,
She did command the souldiers wild,
To drowne both Estrild and her child.
Incontinent then did they bring

Faire Estrild to the Riuers side,
And Sabrine daughter to a King,
Whom Guendoline could not abide:
Who being bound together fast,
Into the riuer they were cast.
And euer since that running streame,
Wherein the Ladies drowned were,
Is called Seuerne through the Realme,
Because that Sabrine dyed there.
Thus they that did to lewdnesse bend,
Were brought vnto a wofull end.
FINIS.

6
A song of Queene Isabel,

wife to King Edward the second, how by the Spencers she was constrained secretly to goe out of England with her elder sonne Prince Edward, to seeke for succour in France, and what hapned vnto her in her iourney.

Proud were the Spencers, and of condition ill,
All England and the King likewise,
They ruled at their will:
And many Lords and Nobles of this Land,

Through their occasion lost their liues,
and none durst them withstand:
And at the last they did encrease their griefe,
Betweene the King and Isabel,
his Queene and faithfull wife.
So that her life she dreaded wondrous sore,
And ca[illeg.] within her secret thoughts,
some present helpe therefore.
Thus she requests with countenance graue and sage,
That she to Thomas Beckets tombe,
might go on Pilgrimage.
Then being ioyfull to haue that happy chance,
Her sonne and she tooke ship with speed,
and sailed into France.
And royally she was receiued then,
By the King and all the rest
of Peeres and Noblemen.
And vnto him at length she did expresse
The cause of her arriuall there,
her griefe and heauinesse.
When as her brother her griefe did vnderstand,
He gaue her leaue to gather men,
throughout his famous Land:
And made his promise to aid her euermore,
In ought as she could stand in need,
with Gold and Siluer store.

But when in deed he should performe the [illeg.]
He was as farre from doing it,
as when she thither came,
And did proclaime while matters yet were greene,
That none on paine of death should go
to aide the English Queene.
This alteration did greatly grieue the Queene,
That downe along her comely face,
the bitter teares were seene.
When she perceiu'd her friends forsooke her so,
She knew not for her safety
which way to turne or go:
But through good hap at last she then decreed,
To looke in fruitfull Germanie,
some succour in this need.
And to Sir Iohn Henault then went she,
Who entertain'd this wofull Queene,
with great solemnitie.
And with great sorrow to him she then complaind,
Of all the griefes and iniuries
which she of late sustain'd:
So that with weeping she dim'd her Princely sight,
The summe whereof did greatly grieue
that Noble courteous Knight:
Who made an oath, he would her Champion be,
And in her quarrell spend his bloud:

from wrong to set her:
And all my friends with whom I may preuaile,
Shall helpe for to aduance your state,
whose truth no time shall faile.
And in this promise most faithful he was found,
And many Lords of great account,
was in this voyage bound.
So setting forward with a goodly traine,
At length through Gods especiall grace,
into England they came.
At Harwich then when they were come ashore,
Of English Lords and Barons bold,
there came to her great store,
Which did reioyce the Queenes afflicted heart,
That English Nobles in such sort,
did come to take her part.
When as King Edward hereof did vnderstand,
How that the Queene with such a power,
was entred on his Land,
And how his Nobles were gone to take her part,
He fled from London presently,
euen with a heauy heart:
And with the Spencers did vnto Bristoll goe,
To fortifie that Gallant Towne,
great cost he did bestow:
Leauing behind to gouerne London Towne,

The stout Bishop of Exceter,
whose pride was soone pul'd downe.
The Mayor of London with citizens great store
The Bishop and the Spencers both,
in hearts they did abhorre:
Therefore they tooke him without feare & dread,
And at the Standard in Cheap side,
they soone smote off his head.
Unto the Queene this message then they sent.
The City of London was
at her commandement:
Wherefore the Queene with all her companie,
Did straight to Bristow march amaine,
whereas the King did lye.
Then she besieg'd the City round about,
Threatning sharpe and cruell death
to those that were so stout:
Wherefore the townsmen, their children & their wiues,
Did yeeld the City to the Queene,
for safegard of their liues.
Where was tooke, the story plaine doth tell,
Sir Hugh Spencer, and with him
the Earle of Arundel.
This iudgement iust the Nobles did set downe,
They should be drawne and hanged both,
in sight of Briscow Towne,

Then was King Edward in the Castle there;
And young Hugh Spencer still with him,
in dread and deadly feare.
And being prepar'd from thence to saile away,
The winds were found so contrary,
they were inforc't to stay:
But at the last Sir Henry Beamond Knight,
Did bring their sailing ship to shore,
and so did stay their flight:
And so these men were taken full speedily,
And brought as prisoners to the Queene,
which did in Bristow lye.
The Queene by counsell of the Lords & Barons bold
To Barkely Castle sent the King,
there to be kept in hold.
And young Hugh Spencer that did much ill procure,
Was to the Marshall of the Hoast,
sent vnto keeping sure.
And then the Queene to Hereford tooke her way,
With al her warlike company,
which late in Bristow lay.
And here behold how Spencer vsed was,
From towne to towne euen as the Queene
to Hereford did passe.
Upon a Iade which they by chance had found,
Young Spencer mounted was,

with legs and hands fast bound:
A written paper along as he did go,
Upon his head he had to weare,
which did his treason show.
And to deride this Traytor lewd and ill,
Certaine men with Reeden Pipes,
did blow before him still:
Thus was he led along in euery place,
While many people did reioyce,
to see his great disgrace.
When vnto Hereford our noble Queene was come,
She did assemble all the Lords
and Knights both all and some:
And in their presence yong Spencer iudgment had
To be both hang'd and quartered,
his treasons were so bad.
Then was the King deposed of his Crowne,
From rule and Princely dignitie,
the Lords did cast him downe.
And in his life his son both wise and sage,
Was crowned King of faire England,
at fifteene yeares of age.
FINIS.

7. A Song of the banishment of two Dukes, Hereford and Norfolke.

Two Noble Dukes of great renowne,
that long had liu'd in fame,
Through hatefull enuie were cast downe,
and brought to sudden shame.
The Duke of Hereford was the one,
a prudent Prince and wise:
Gainst whom such malice there was showne,
which soone in sight did rise.
The Duke of Norfolke most vntrue,
declared to the King:
The Duke of Hereford greatly grew
in hatred of each thing,
Which by his grace was acted still,
against both high and low:
And how he had a trayterous will,
his state to ouerthrow.
The Duke of Hereford then in hast,
was sent for to the King:
And by his Lords in order plac't
examined of each thing.
Which being guiltlesse of this crime,
which was against him laid:
The Duke of Norfolke at that time,

these words vnto him said.
How canst thou with a shamelesse face,
deny a truth so stout:
And here before his Royall Grace,
so falsly face it out:
Did not these treasons from thee passe,
when we together were,
How that the King vnworthy was
the Royall Crowne to beare:
Wherefore my gracious Lord (quoth he)
and you his noble Peeres:
To whom I wish long life to be,
with many happy yeares.
I doe pronounce before you all,
the Duke of Hereford here,
A traitor to our noble King,
as time shall shew it cleare.
The Duke of Hereford hearing that
in mind was grieued much:
And did returne this answer flat,
which did Duke Norfolke touch.
The terme of traitor trothlesse Duke,
in scorne and deepe disdaine:
With flat defiance to thy face,
I do returne againe.

And therefore if it please your Grace,
to grant me leaue (quoth he)
To combate with my knowne foe,
that here accuseth me;
I doe not doubt, but plainly proue:
that like a periur'd Knight,
He hath most falsly sought my shame,
against all truth and right.
The King did grant this iust request,
and did therewith agree:
At Couentry in August next,
this combate fought should be.
The Dukes on backed steeds full stout,
in coats of steele most bright:
With speares in rests did enter lists,
this combate fierce to fight.
The King then cast his warder downe,
commanding them to stay:
And with his Lords he counsell tooke,
to stint that mortall fray.
At length vnto these noble Dukes,
the King of Heralds came,
And vnto them with lofty speech,
this sentence did proclaime.
Sir Henry Bullingbrooke this day,

the Duke of Hereford here,
And Thomas Moubray, Norfolkes Duke,
so valiant did appeare:
And hauing in honourable sort,
repaired to this place:
Our noble King for speciall cause,
hath altred thus the case.
First Henry Duke of Hereford,
ere fifteene dayes be past:
Shall part this Realme on paine of death,
while ten yeares space doth last.
And Thomas Duke of Norfolke, thou
that hast begun this strife,
And therefore no good proofe canst bring,
I say for terme of life.
By iudgement of our Soueraigne Lord
which now in place doth stand:
For euermore I banish thee,
out of thy natiue Land:
Charging thee on paine of death,
when fifteene dayes are past:
Thou neuer tread on English ground,
so long as life doth last.
Thus were they sworne before the King
ere they did further passe:

The one should neuer come in place,
where as the other was.
Then both the Dukes with heauy hearts,
were parted presently:
Their vncooth streams of froward chance,
in forraigne Lands to try.
The Duke of Norfolke comming then,
where hee should shipping take:
The bitter tears fell downe his cheeks,
and thus his mone did make.
Now let me sob and sigh my fill,
ere I from hence depart:
That inward pangs with speed may burst
my sore afflicted heart.
Ah cursed man whose loathed life
is held so much in scorne:
Whose company is cleane despis'd,
and life as one forlorn.
Now take thy leaue and last adue,
of this thy countrey deare.
Which neuer more thou must behold
nor yet approach it neare.
How happy should I count my self,
if death my heart had torne:
That I might haue my bones entomb'd,

where I was bred and borne.
Or that by Neptunes wrathfull rage,
I might be prest to dye;
While that sweet Englands pleasant banks,
did stand before mine eye.
How sweet a sent hath English ground,
within my senses now:
How faire vnto my outward sight,
seemes euery branch and bow.
The fields and flowers, the trees and stones,
seeme such vnto my mind:
That in all other Countries sure,
the like I shall not find.
Oh that the Sun with shining face,
would stay his Steeds by strength:
That this same day might stretched be
to twenty yeares of length.
And that the true performed tides,
their hasty course to stay:
That Eolus would neuer yeeld,
to beare me hence away.
That by the Fountaine of mine eye,
the fields might watred be:
That I might graue my grieuous plaints,
vpon each springing tree.

But time I see with Eagles wings,
too swift doth flye away:
And dusky clouds begin to dim
the brightnes of the day.
The fatall houre draweth on,
the winds and tides agree:
And now sweet England ouer soone,
I must depart from thee.
The mariners haue hoisted sailes,
and call to catch me in:
And now in wofull heart I feele,
my torments to begin.
Wherefore farwell for euermore,
sweet England vnto thee:
And farwell all my freinds which I
againe shall neuer see.
And England here I kisse thy ground
vpon my bended knee:
Whereby to shew to all the world,
how deare I loued thee.
This being said, away he went,
as fortune did him guide:
And at the length with griefe of hart,
in Uenice there he died.
The Duke in dolefull sort,

did leade his life in France:
And at the last the mighty Lord,
did him full high aduance.
The Lords of England afterward,
did send for him againe:
While that King Richard at the wars,
in Ireland did remaine.
Who through the vile and great abuse,
which through his deeds did spring,
Deposed was, and then the Duke
was truly crowned King.

8. The Noble Acts of Arthur of the round Table.

[_]

To the tune of, Flying Fame

When Arthur first in court began,
and was approued King:
By force of armes great victories wan,
and conquest home did bring.
Then into Britaine straight he came,
where fiftie good and able
Knights then repaired vnto him,
which were of the round Table.

And many Iusts and Turnaments,
before them there were drest:
Where both Knights did then excell
and farre surmount the rest.
But one Sir Lancelot du Lake,
who was approued well,
He in his fight and deeds of armes,
all other did excell:
When he had rested him a while,
to play to game and sport,
He thought he would go proue himselfe,
in some aduenturous sort.
He armed rode in forrest wide,
and met a Damosell faire:
Who told him of aduentures great,
whereunto he gaue good eare.
Why should I not quoth Lancelot tho,
for that cause came I hither:
Thou seemst, quoth she, a Knight right good,
and I will bring thee thither:
Where as the mightiest Knight doth dwell
that now is of great fame:
Wherefore tell me what Knight thou art,
and then what is thy name,
My name is Lancelot du Lake;
quoth she'it likes me than:
Here dwels a Knight that neuer was
ore matcht with any man.

Who hath in prison threescore knights,
and foure that he hath won:
Knights of King Arthurs court they be,
and of his Table round.
She brought him to a Riuers side,
and also to a tree:
Whereas a copper Bason hung,
his fellowes shields to see.
He stroke so hard the Bason broke,
when Tarquin heard the sound,
He droue a horse before him straight,
whereon a Knight lay bound.
Sir Knight then said Sir Lancelot tho,
bring me that horse load hither:
And lay him downe and let him rest,
weele trie our force together.
And as I vnderstand thou hast,
so farre as thou art able,
Done great despight and shame vnto
the Knights of the round Table.
If thou be of the Table round,
(quoth Tarquin speedily)
Both thee and all thy fellowship,
I vtterly defie.
That's ouermuch quoth Lancelot tho,
defend thee by and by.
They put their spurs vnto their Steeds
and each at others flie.

They coucht their speares and horses ran,
as though there had been thunder.
And each stroake then amidst the shield,
wherewith they brake in sunder.
Their horses backes brake vnder them,
the Knights were both astound,
To void their horse they made great hast
to light vpon the ground.
They tooke them to their shields full fast,
their swords they drew out than:
With mighty strokes most egerly,
each one to other ran.
They wounded were, and blew full sore,
for breath they both did stand,
And leaning on their swords a while,
quoth Tarquin hold thy hand.
And tell to me what I shall aske.
say on, quoth Lancelot tho:
Thou art quoth Tarquin the best Knight,
that euer I did know:
And like a Knight that I did hate,
so that thou be not he,
I will deliuer all the rest,
and eke accord with thee.
That is well said, quoth Lancelot tho:
but sith it must be so,
What is the Knight thou hatest so,
I pray thee to me show,

His name is Sir Lancelot du Lake,
he slew my brother deare;
Him I suspect of all the rest,
I would I had him here.
Thy wish thou hast but now vnknowne,
I am Lancelot du lake,
Now Knight of Arthurs Table round,
King Haunds sonne of Benwake:
And I defie thee, do thy worst.
Ha, ha, quoth Tarquin tho:
One of vs two shall end our liues,
before that we do go.
If thou be Lancelot du Lake,
then welcome shalt thou be:
Wherefore see thou thy selfe defend,
for now I thee defie.
They buckled then together so,
like two wilde Boares so rushing:
And with there swords and shields they ran
at one another lashing,
The ground besprinkled was with bloud,
Tarquin began to faint:
For he gaue backe, and bore his shield
so low, he did repent.
That soone espied Sir Lancelot tho,
he leapt vnto him then:
He pul'd him downe vpon his knees,
and rushing off his helme.

And he stroke his necke in two
and when he had done so,
From prison three score Knights and foure,
Tarquin deliuered tho.
FINIS.

9. A Song in praise of Women.

To a Pleasant new Tune, called, My Valentine.

Among all other things
that God hath made beneath the skie,
Most gloriously to satisfie the curious eye
of Mortall man withall:
The sight of Eue,
Did soonest fit his fancy:
Whose curtesie and amitie, most speedily,
had caught his heart in thrall:
Whom he did loue so deare,
as plainely did appeare:
He made her Queene of all the world
and Mistresse of his heart:
Though afterwards she wrought his woe,
his death and deadly smart,
What need I speake
Of matters passed long agoe:
Which all men know, I need not show, to hie or low

the case it is so plaine,
Although that Eue committed then so great offence,
Ere she went hence,
A recompence in our defence,
she made mankind againe:
For by her blessed seed
we are redeemd indeed:
Why should not then all mortall men,
esteeme of women well:
And loue their wiues euen as their liues,
as nature doth compell.
A vertuous wife,
The Scripture doth commend and say:
That night and day, shee is a stay from all decay,
to keep her houshold still.
She vseth not
To giue her self to wandering,
Or flattering, or pratling, or any thing
to do her neighbour ill:
But all her mind is bent,
his pleasures to content.
Her faithfull loue doth not remoue,
for any storme or griefe,
Then is not he well blest thinke ye,
that meets with such a wife:
But now me thinkes,

I heare some men do say to me,
Few such there be in each degree and qualitie,
at this day to be found:
And now adayes,
Some wiues do set their whole delight,
Both day and night, with all despight to brawle and fight,
their rage doth so abound.
But sure I think and say,
here comes none such to day.
Nor do I know of any she,
that is within this place,
And yet for feare I dare not sweare,
it is so hard a case.
But to conclude,
For maides and wiues and virgins all,
Both great and small, in bowre or hall, to pray I shall
so long as life doth last.
That they may liue,
With hearts content and perfect peace,
That ioyes increase may neuer cease, till death release
the care that crept so fast:
For duty doth me binde,
To haue them all in mind:
Euen for her sake, that doth vs make
so merry to be seene:
The glory of the femall kind,
I meane our Noble Queene.
FINIS.

19. A Song in praise of a single life,

to the Tune of the Ghosts hearse.

Some do write of bloudy warres,
Some shew the sundry iarres,
twixt men through enuy raised:
Some in praise of Princes write,
Some set their whole delight
to heare faire beauty blazed.
Some other persons are moued,
for to praise where they are loued:
And let louers praise beauty as they will;
Other wayes I am intended:
True loue is little regarded,
And oftentymes goes vnrewarded,
then to auoid all strife,
Whereby the heart is not offended.
O what suit and seruice too,
Is vsed by them that woo:
and all to purchase fauour,
O what griefe in heart and mind,
What sorrow do we find,
through womans fond behauiour:
Subiect to suffer each lowre,
and speeches both sharpe and sowre,

And labour, loue & cost, perchance its but all lost.
and no way to be amended:
And so to purchase pleasure,
And after repent by leysure,
Then to auoid all strife, &c.
To a man in wedded state
Doth happen much debate,
except Gods speciall fauour:
If his wife be proudly bent,
Or secretly consent,
to any lewd behauiour:
If she be slothfull or idle,
Or such, as his tongue cannot bridle,
O then well were he,
If death his bane would be,
No sorrow else can be amended:
For looke how long he were siuing,
Euermore would he be grieuing.
Then to auoid all strife, &c.
Married folke we often heare,
Euen through their children deare:
haue many causes of sorrowes,
If disobedient they be found,
Or false in any ground,
by their vnlawfull borrowes,
To see such wicked fellows,

shamefully come to the Gallowes.
Whom Parents with great care,
Nourished with dainty fare,
from their cradle truly tended,
When as the mother before them,
doth curse they day that ere she bore them,
Then to auoid all strife, &c.
Do we then behold and see,
When men and wiues agree,
and liue and loue together:
Where the Lord hath sent them eke:
Faire children mild and meeke,
like flowers in Summers weather
How greatly are they greiued,
And will not by ioy be relieued,
if that death doth call,
Either wife or children small,
whom their vertues do commend,
Their losses whom they thus loued,
from their hearts cannot be moued
Then to auoid all strife, &c.
Who being in that happy state,
Would worke himselfe such hate,
his fancy for to follow:
Or liuing here deuoid all strife,
Would take to him a wife:

For to procure his sorrow:
With carking and with caring,
Euermore must be sparing:
Were he not worse then mad,
being merry wold be sad:
Were he to be commended,
That ere would seeke such pleasure,
where griefe is all his treasure.
Then to auoid all strife, &c.

12. The widdowes solace,

To the tune of Robinsons Almaine.

Mourne no more faire widdow,
teares are all in vaine:
Tis neither griefe nor sorrow,
can call the dead againe.
Man's well enough compared
vnto the Summers flower:
Which now is faire and pleasant,
yet withered in an houre.
And mourne no more in vaine,
as one whose faith is small:
Be patient in affliction,
and giue god thanks for all.
All men are borne to dye,

the Scripture telleth plaine,
Of earth we are created,
to earth we must againe.
Twas neither Cressus treasure,
nor Alexanders fame,
Nor Solomon by wisdome,
that could deaths fury tame.
No Physicke might preserue them
when nature did decay:
What man can hold for euer,
the thing that will away.
Then mourn no more, &c.
Though you haue lost your husband,
your comfort in distresse:
Consider God regardeth
the widdowes heauinesse.
And hath straightly charged,
such as his children be,
The fatherlesse and widdow,
to shield from iniury.
Then mourn no more, &c.
If he were true and faithfull,
and louing vnto thee:
Doubt not but ther's in England,
enough as good as he.
But if that such affection,

within his heart was none:
Then giue God praise and glory,
that he is dead and gone.
And mourne no more, &c.
Receiue such sutors friendly,
as do resort to thee:
Respect not the outward person,
but the inward grauity.
And with aduised iudgment,
chuse him aboue the rest:
Whom thou by proofe hast tried,
in heart to loue thee best.
Then mourne no more, &c.
Then shalt thou leade a life,
exempt from all annoy:
And whensoeuer it chanceth,
I pray God giue thee ioy.
And thus I make an end,
with true humilitie,
In hope my simple solace,
shall well accepted be.
Then mourne no more in vaine, &c.
FINIS.

12. A Gentlewomans complaint,

in that she found her freind faithlesse, which should haue continued constant.

Faith is a figure standing now for nought:
Faith is a fancy wt ought to rest in thought.
Faith now adaies, as all the world may see,
Resteth in few, and Faith is fled from thee.
Is there any Faith in strangers to be found:
Is there any Faith lies hidden in the ground:
Is there any Faith in men that buried be:
No there is none, and Faith is fled from thee.
Fled is the Faith that might remaine in any,
Fled is the Faith that should remaine in many;
Fled is the Faith that should in any be.
Then farwell hope, for Faith is fled from thee.
From Faith I see, that euery one is flying:
From Faith I see, that all things are a dying:
They flye from Faith yt most in Faith should be,
And Faithlesse thou, that brake thy Faith to me.
Thee haue I sought but thee I could not find,
Thou of all other, was most within my minde:
Thee haue I left, and I alone will be,
Because I finde that Faith is fled from thee.

13. Of a prince of England,

who wooed the Kings daughter of France, and how he was slaine, and she after marred to a Forrester.

[_]

To the tune of Crimson veluet.

In the dayes of old,
when faire France did flourish;
Stories plainly tell,
Louers felt annoy.
The King a Daughter had,
Beautious, bright and louely,
Which made her Father glad,
she was his onely ioy.
A Prince of England came,
Whose deeds did merit fame:
he wooed her long, and loe at last,
Looke what he did require,
She granted his desire,
their hearts in one were linked fast
Which when her Father proued,
Lord how he was moued,
and tormented in his mind:
He sought for to preuent them,
And to discontent them
fortune crosses Louers kind.

When the Princes twaine,
Were thus bard of pleasure:
Through the kings disdaine,
which their ioyes withstood.
The Lady got vp close,
Her iewels and her treasure,
Hauing no remorse,
of state or royall Bloud.
In homely poore array,
She got from Court away
to meet her ioy and hearts delight:
Who in a Forrest great,
Had taken vp his seat,
to wait her comming in the night.
But see what sudden danger,
To this Princely stranger,
chanced as he sate alone:
By outlawes was he robbed,
And with ponyards stabbed,
vttering many a dying groane.
The Princesse arm'd by him,
And by true desire:
Wandring all the night,
without dread at all.
Still vnknowne she passed,
In her strange attire,
Comming at the last,

in the echoes call.
You faire woods, quoth shee,
Honoured may you be,
harbouring my hearts delight,
Which doth compasse here,
My ioy and only deere,
my trusty friend and Knight.
Sweet I come vnto thee,
Sweet I come to woe thee,
that thou maist not angry be:
For my long delaying,
And thy courteous staying,
mends for all Ile make to thee.
Passing thus along,
Through the silent Forrest,
Many grieuous groanes,
sounded in her eares:
Where she heard a man,
To lament the sorest,
That was euer seene,
forced by deadly feare:
Farewell my deare quoth he,
Whom I shall neuer see:
for why my life is at an end,
Through villaines cruelty,
Lo here for thee I dye,
to shew I am a faithfull friend,

Here I ly a bleeding,
While my thoughts are feeding,
on thy dearest beauty found.
O hard hap that may be,
Litle knowes my Lady,
my heart bloud lyes on the ground.
With that he gaue a groane,
Which did burst in sunder,
All the tender strings
of his bleeding heart.
She which knew his voice,
At his tale did wonder:
All her former ioy,
did to griefe conuert.
Straight she ran to see,
Who this man should be,
that so like her loue did speake:
And found when as she came,
Her louely Lord lay slaine,
all smear'd in bloud, which life did breake.
When this deed she spied,
Lord how sore she cryed:
Her sorrow cannot counted be,
Her eyes like fountaines running,
Whiles she cryed out my darling,
O would that I had dyed for thee.

His pale lips alas,
Twenty times she kissed,
And his face did wash,
with her trickling teares.
Euery bleeding wound,
Her faire eyes bedewed,
Wiping off the bloud
with her golden haire.
Speake faire Prince to me,
One sweet word of comfort giue:
Lift vp thy faire eyes,
Listen to my cryes,
think in what great griefe I liue.
All in vaine she sued,
All in vaine she viewed,
the Princes life was dead and gone,
There stood she still mourning,
Till the Sunnes approching,
and bright day was comming on.
In this great distresse,
Quoth the royall Lady,
Who can now expresse,
what will become of me.
To my Fathers Court,
Will I neuer wander,
But some seruice take,

where I might placed be:
And thus she made her mone,
Weeping all alone,
all in dread and dreadfull feare.
A Forrester all in greene,
Most comely to be seene,
ranging the woods did find her there,
Round beset with sorrow,
Maid, quoth he, good morrow,
what hard hap hath brought you here:
Harder hap did neuer,
Chance to maiden euer,
here lies slaine my brother deare.
Where might I be placed,
Gentle Forrester tell me:
Where should I procure
a seruice in my care.
Paines I will not spare,
But will do my duty,
Ease me of my care,
help my extreme need.
The Forrester all amazed,
On her beauty gazed,
till his heart was set on fire.
If faire Maide quoth he,
You will go with me,
You shall haue your hearts desire.

He brought her to his mother,
And aboue all other,
he sets forth this maidens praise.
Long was his heart enflamed,
At last her loue he gained:
thus did he his glory raise.
Thus vnknowne he matched,
With the Kings faire Daughter:
Children seuen he had,
ere he knew the same:
But when he vnderstood,
She was a royall Princesse,
By this meanes at last,
he shewed forth her fame:
He cloath'd his Children then,
Not like other men,
in party colours strange to see:
The left side cloth of Gold,
The right side now behold,
of woollen cloth still framed he.
Men hereat did wonder,
Golden fame did thunder
this strange deed in euery place.
The King of France came thither,
Being pleasant weather,
in the woods the Hart to chase.

The children then did stand,
As their Father willed,
Where the Royall King,
must of force come by.
Their Mother richly clad,
In faire Crimson veluet:
Their Father all in gray,
comely to the eye.
Then the famous King
Noted euery thing,
asking how he durst be so bold,
To let his wife to weare,
And decke his children there,
in costly robes, in cloth of gold,
The forrester both replyed,
And the cause descried,
to the king thus did he say:
Well may they by their Mother,
Weare rich gold like other,
being by birth a Princesse gay.
The King vpon these words,
More heedfully beheld them:
Till a Crimson blush,
his conceit did crosse.
The more I looke, he said,
On thy wife and children,
The more I call to mind,

my Daughter whom I lost.
I am that Child (quoth she)
Falling on her knee,
pardon me my Soueraigne Liege.
The King perceiuing this,
His daughter deare did kisse
and ioyfull teares did stop his speech:
With his traine he turned,
And with her soiourned,
straight way he dub'd her husband knight,
Then made him Earle of Flanders,
One of his chiefe Commanders:
thus was his sorrow put to flight.
Finis.

Of the faithfull friendship that lasted betweene two faithfull friends.

To the Tune of Flying Fame.

In stately Rome sometimes did dwell
a man of noble Fame:
Who had a sonne of seemely shape,
Alphonso was his name:
When he was growne and come to age,
his father thought it best,
To send his sonne to Athens faire,
where wisdomes Schoole did rest.
And when he was to Athens come,

good Lectures for to learne.
A place to board him with delight,
his friends did well discerne,
A noble Knight of Athens Towne,
of him did take the charge,
Who had a sonne Ganselo cald,
iust of his pitch and age.
In stature and in person both,
in fauour, speech and face:
In qualitie and condition eke
they greed in euery place.
So like they were in all respects,
the one vnto the other;
They were not knowne but by their name,
of father nor of mother.
And as in fauour they were found
alike in all respects:
Euen so they did most dearly loue,
as prou'd by good respect.
Ganselo loued a Lady faire,
which did in Athens dwell,
Who was in beauty peerlesse found,
so farre she did excell.
Upon a time it chanced so,
as fancy did him moue:

That he would visit for delight,
his Ladie and his loue:
And to his true and faithfull friend,
he did declare the same:
Asking of him if he would see,
that faire and comely Dame.
Alphonso did thereto agree,
and with Ganselo went:
To see the Ladie whom he lou'd
which bred his discontent.
But when he cast his Christall eyes
vpon her Angels hue:
The beauty of that Ladie bright,
did straight his heart subdue.
His gentle heart so wounded was,
with that faire Ladies face,
That afterward he daily liu'd
in sad and wofull case.
And of his griefe he knew not how
thereof to make an end:
For that he knew the Ladies loue,
was yeelded to his friend.
Thus being sore perplext in mind,
vpon his bed he lay:
Like one which death and deepe despaire,

had almost worne away.
His friend Ganselo that did see,
his griefe and great distresse:
At length requested for to know
his cause of heauinesse.
With much adoe at length he told
the truth vnto his friend:
Who did release his inward woe,
with comfort in the end.
Take courage then deare friend, quoth he,
though she through loue be mine:
My right I will resigne to thee,
the Lady shall be thine.
You know our fauours are alike,
our speech alike likewise:
This day in mine apparell then,
you shall your selfe disguise.
And vnto Church then shall you goe,
directly in my sted:
So though my friends suppose tis I,
you shall the Lady wed.
Alphonso was so well appaid,
and as they had decreed:
He went next day, and wedded plaine,
the Lady there indeed.

But when the Nuptiall Feast was done,
and Phœbus quite was fled,
The Lady for Ganselo tooke
Alphonso to her bed.
That night they spent in pleasant sport,
and when the day was come,
A Post for faire Alphonso came,
to fetch him home to Rome.
Then was the matter plainely prou'd,
Alphonso wedded was,
And not Ganselo to that Dame,
which wrought great wo alas.
Alphonso being come to Rome,
with his Lady gay:
Ganseloes friends and kindred all,
in such a rage did stay,
That they depriu'd him of his wealth,
his lands and rich attyre:
And banish him their Country quite,
in rage and wrathfull yre.
With sad and pensiue thoughts alas,
Ganselo wandred then,
Who was constrain'd through want to beg
reliefe of many men.
In this distresse oft would he say,
to Rome I meane to go:
To seeke Alphonso my deare friend,

who will relieue my woe.
To Rome when poore Ganselo came
and found Alphonsoes place,
Which was so famous huge & faire,
himselfe in such poore case.
He was asham'd to shew himselfe,
in that his poore array:
Saying, Alphonso knowes me well,
if he should come this way.
Wherfore he staid within the street
Alphonso then came by:
But heeded not Ganselo poore,
his friend that stood so nie.
Which grieu'd Ganselo to the hart:
quoth he, and is it so?
Doth proud Alphonso now disdaine
his friends in need to know?
In desperate sort away he went,
into a Barne hard by:
And presently he drew his knife,
thinking thereby to die.
And bitterly in sorrow there
he did lament and weepe:
And being ouerswayed with grief,
he there fell fast asleepe.

Where soundly there he sweetly slept,
came in a murthering thiefe,
And with a naked knife, lay by
this man so full of griefe.
The knife so bright he tooke vp straight
and went away amaine:
And thrust it in a murthered man,
which he before had slaine.
And afterward he went with speed,
and put his bloudie knife
Into his hand that sleeping lay,
to saue himself from strife.
Which done, in hast away he ran.
and when that search was made,
Ganselo with his bloudie knife,
was for the murther staid.
And brought before the Magistrates,
who did confesse most plaine,
That he indeed with that same knife,
the murthered man had slaine.
Alphonso sitting there as Iudge,
and knowing Ganseloes face:
To saue his friend, did say, himselfe
was guiltie in that case.
None, quoth Alphonso, kil'd the man,

my Lord but onely I:
And therefore set this poore man free,
and let me iustly die.
Thus while for death these faithfull friends
in striuing did proceed:
The man before the Senate came,
which did the fact indeed.
Who being moued with remorse,
their friendly hearts to see:
Did proue before the Iudges plaine,
none did the fact but he.
Thus when the truth was plainly told,
of all sides ioy was seene:
Alphonso did embrace his friend,
which had so wofull beene.
In rich array he clothed him,
as fitted his degree:
And helpt him to his lands againe,
and former dignity,
The murtherer he for telling truth,
had pardon at that time:
Who afterwards lamented much,
this foule and grieuous crime.
FINIS.
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