University of Virginia Library

34 AN IRATE HOST

Eache beeste can chuse his feere according to his minde,
And eke to shew a frindlie cheare, lyke to their beastly kynd.
A lyon saw I theare, as whyte as any snow,
Whiche seemyd well to leade the race, his porte the same did shew.
Uppon this gentyll beast to gaze it lyked me,
For still me thought, it seemyd me, of noble blood to be.
And as he praunced before, still seeking for a make,
As whoe wolde say, “There is none heare, I trow, will me forsake,”
I might perceave a woolf, as whyte as whale his bone,
A fayrer beast, a fressher hew, beheld I never none,
Save that her lookes wear fearce and froward eke her grace.
Toward the whiche, this gentle beast gan hym advaunce apace,
And, with a beck full low, he bowed at her feete
In humble wyse, as who wold say, “I am to farr unmeete”;
But suche a scornfull cheere, wheare with she hym rewarded,
Was never seene, I trow, the lyke, to suche as well deservid.
Wheare with she startt asyde well neare a foote or twayne,
And unto hym thus gan she saye, with spight and great disdayne:
“Lyon,” she said, “yf thow hadest knowen my mynde beforne,
Thow hadst not spentt thie travaile thus, and all thie payne forlorne.
Do waye! I lett the weete, thow shalt not play with me;
But raunge aboute: thow maiste seeke oute some meeter feere for the.”
Forthwith he beatt his taile, his eyes begounne to flame;
I might perceave his noble hartt moche moved by the same.
Yet saw I him refrayne, and eke his rage asswage,
And unto her thus gan he say, whan he was past his rage:
“Crewell, you do me wronge to sett me thus so light;
Without desert, for my good will to shew me such dispight.
How can you thus entreat a lyon of the race,
That with his pawes a crowned kinge devoured in the place?
Whose nature is, to prea uppon no symple foode
As longe as he may suck the flesshe, and drincke of noble bloode.
Yf you be faire and fresshe, am I not of your hew?
And, for my vaunte, I dare well say my blood is not untrew;
Ffor you your self dothe know, it is not long agoe,
Sins that, for love, one of the race did end his life in woe
In towre both strong and highe, for his assured truthe.
Wheare as in teares he spent his breath, alas! the more the ruthe;
This gentle beast lykewise, who nothinge could remove,
But willinglye to seeke his death for losse of his true love.
Other ther be whose lyfe, to lynger still in payne,
Against their will preservid is, that wold have dyed right fayne.
But well I may perceave that nought it movid you,
My good entent, my gentle hart, nor yet my kynd so true;
But that your will is suche to lure me to the trade,
As others some full many yeares to trace by crafte you made.
And thus beholde my kynd, how that we differ farr:
I seke my foes, and you your frends do threaten still with warr;
I fawne wheare I am fedd, you flee that seekes to you;
I can devoure no yelding pray, you kill wheare you subdue;
My kynd, is to desyre the honour of the field,
And you, with blood to slake your thurst of suche as to you yelde.
Wherefore I wolde you wist, that for your coy lookes
I am no man that will be traynd, nor tanglyd bye such hookes;
And thoughe some list to bow, wheare blame full well they might,
And to suche beastes a currant fawne, that shuld have travaile bright,
I will observe the law that nature gave to me,
To conqueare such as will resist, and let the rest go free.
And as a ffaulcon free, that soreth in the ayre,
Whiche never fedd on hand or lure, that for no stale doth care,
While that I live and breathe, suche shall my custome be
In wildnesse of the woods to seeke my prea, wheare pleasith me;
Where many one shall rew that never mad offence:
Thus your refuse agaynst my powre shall bode them no defence.
In the revendge wherof, I vowe and sweare therto,
A thowsand spoyles I shall commytt I never thought to do;
And yf to light on you my happ so good shall be,
I shall be glad to feede on that that wold have fed on me.
And thus, farewell! unkynd, to whome I bent to low,
I would you wist the shipp is safe that bare his saile so low!
Syns that a lyons hart is for a woolfe no pray,
With blooddye mowth of symple sheepe go slake your wrath, I say,
With more dispight and ire than I can now expresse,
Whiche to my payne though I refrayne the cause you may well gesse:
As for becawse my self was awthour of this game,
It bootes me not that, by my wrath, I should disturbb the same.