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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529313" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Bristowe Tragedie: Or The Dethe Of Syr Charles Badwin</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE featherd songster chaunticleer<br>Han wounde hys bugle horne,<br>And tolde the earlie villager<br>The commynge of the morne.<br>Kynge EDWARDE sawe the ruddie streakes<br>Of lyghte eclypse the greie;<br>And herde the raven's crokynge throte<br>Proclayme the fated daie.<br>'Thou'rt ryght,' quod hee, 'for, by the Godde<br>That syttes enthron'd on hyghe! <br>CHARLES BAWDIN, and hys fellowes twain,<br>To-daie shall surelie die. <br>Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale<br>Hys Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;<br>'Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie<br>'Hee leaves thys mortall state.'<br>Syr CANTERLONE thenne bendedd low;<br>Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;<br>Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,<br>And to Syr CHARLES dydd goe. <br>Butt whenne hee came, hys children twaine,<br>And eke hys lovynge wyfe,<br>Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,<br>For goode Syr CHARLESES lyfe.<br>'O goode Syr CHARLES!' sayd CANTERLONE,<br>'Badde tydyngs I doe brynge.' <br>'Speke boldlie, manne,' sayd brave Syr CHARLES,<br>'Whatte says thie traytor kynge?'<br>'I greeve to telle, before yonne sonne<br>Does fromme the welkinn flye, <br>Hee hath uponne hys honour sworne,<br>Thatt thou thalt surelie die.'<br>'Wee all must die, quod brave Syr CHARLES;<br>'Of thatte I'm not affearde;<br>'Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?<br>'Thanke JESU, I'm prepar'd.<br>'Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,<br>'I'de sooner die to-daie<br>'Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,<br>'Tho' I shoulde lyve for aie.' <br>Thenne CANTERLONE hee dydd goe out,<br>To telle the maior straite<br>To gett all thynges ynne reddyness<br>For goode Syr CHARLESES fate.<br>Thenne Maisterr CANYNGE saughte the kynge,<br>And felle down onne hys knee;<br>'I'm come,' quod hee, 'unto your grace<br>'To move your clemencye.'<br>Thenne quod the kynge, 'Youre tale speke out,<br>'You have been much oure friende; <br>'Whatever youre request may bee,<br>'Wee wylle to ytte attende.'<br>'My nobile leige! alle my request<br>'Ys for a nobile knyghte,<br>'Who, tho' may hap hee has donne wronge,<br>'He thoghte ytte stylle was ryghte.<br>'Hee has a spouse and children twaine,<br>'Alle rewyn'd are for aie;<br>'Yff thatt you are resolv'd to lett<br>'CHARLES BAWDIN die to-daie.' <br>'Speke nott of such a traytour vile,'<br>The kynge ynne furie sayde;<br>'Before the evening starre doth sheene,<br>'BAWDIN shall loose hys hedde.<br>'Justice does loudlie for hym calle,<br>'And hee shalle have hys meede:<br>'Speke, Maister CANYNGE! Whatte thynge else<br>'Att present doe you neede? <br>'My nobile leige!' goode CANYNGE sayde,<br>'Leave justice to our Godde, <br>'And laye the yronne rule asyde;<br>'Be thyne the olyve rodde.<br>'Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines,<br>'The best were synners grete;<br>'CHRIST'S vycarr only knowes ne synne,<br>'Ynne alle thys mortall state.<br>'Lett mercie rule thyne infante reign;<br>''Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;<br>'From race to race thy familie<br>'Alle sov'reigns shall endure. <br>'But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou<br>'Beginne thy infante reign;<br>'Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows<br>'Wylle never long remayne.'<br>'CANYNGE, awaie! thys traytour vile<br>'Has scorn'd my power and mee;<br>'Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne<br>'Intreate my clemencye?'<br>'My nobile leige! the trulie brave<br>'Wylle val'rous actions prize, <br>'Respect a brave and nobile mynde,<br>'Altho' ynne enemies.'<br>'CANYNGE, awale! By Godde ynne Heav'n<br>'Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,<br>'I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade<br>'Whilst thys Syr CHARLES dothe lyve.<br>'By MARIE, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n,<br>'Thys sunne shall be hys laste.'<br>Thenne CANYNGE dropt a brinie teare,<br>And from the presence paste. <br>Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,<br>Hee to Syr CHARLES dydd goe,<br>And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole,<br>And teares beganne to flowe.<br>'Wee all must die,' quod brave Syr CHARLES;<br>'Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;<br>'Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate<br>'Of all wee mortall menne.<br>'Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul<br>'Runns overr att thyne eye; <br>'Is ytte for my most welcome doome<br>'Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?<br>Quod godlie CANYNGE, 'I doe weepe,<br>'Thatt thou so soone must dye;<br>'And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;<br>''Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.'<br>'Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye<br>'From godlie fountaines sprynge;<br>'Dethe I despise, and alle the power<br>'Of EDWARDE, traytor kynge. <br>'Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means<br>'I shall resigne my lyfe,<br>'The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde<br>'For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.'<br>'Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,<br>'Thys was appointed mee;<br>'Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge<br>'Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee?<br>'Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,<br>'Whan thousands dy'd arounde; <br>'Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode<br>'Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde.<br>'How dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte,<br>'Thatt cutte the airie waie,<br>'Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,<br>'And close myne eyes for aie?<br>'And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,<br>'Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?<br>'No! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere,<br>'Bee alle the manne display'd. <br>'Ah, goddelyke HENRIE! Godde forefende,<br>'And guarde thee and thye sonne,<br>'Yff 'tis hys wylle, but yff 'tis nott,<br>'Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.<br>'My honest friende, my faulte has beene<br>'To serve Godde and mye prynce;<br>'And thatt I no tyme-server am,<br>'My dethe wylle soone convynce.<br>'Ynne Londonne citye was I born;<br>'Of parents of grete note; <br>'My fadre dydd a nobile armes<br>'Emblazon onne hys cote.<br>'I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone<br>'Where soone I hope to goe;<br>'Where wee for ever shall bee blest,<br>'From oute the reech of woe<br>'Hee taughte mee justice and the laws<br>'Wyth pitie to unite;<br>'And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe<br>'The wronge cause fromm the ryghte. <br>'Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande<br>'To feede the hungrie poore,<br>'Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie<br>'The hungrie fromme my doore.<br>'And none can saye, butt alle mye lyfe<br>'I have hys wordyes kept;<br>'And summ'd the actyonns of the daie<br>'Eche nyghte before I slept.<br>'I have a spouse, goe aske of her,<br>'Yff I defyl'd her bedde? <br>'I have a kynge, and none can laie<br>'Blacke treason onne my hedde.<br>'Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,<br>'Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;<br>'Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd<br>'To leave thys worlde of payne?<br>'Ne! hapless HENRIE! I rejoyce,<br>'I shalle ne see thye dethe;<br>'Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause<br>'Doe I resign my brethe. <br>'Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe!<br>'Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;<br>'Whyle RICHARD'S sonnes exalt themselyes,<br>'Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.<br>'Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,<br>'And godlie HENRIE'S reigne,<br>'Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies<br>'For those of bloude and peyne?<br>'Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne,<br>'And mangled by a hynde, <br>'I doe defye the traytor's pow'r,<br>'Hee can ne harm my mynde;<br>'Whatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole,<br>'Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,<br>'And ne ryche monument of brasse<br>'CHARLES BAWDIN'S name shall bear;<br>'Yett ynne the holie booke above,<br>'Whyche tyme can't eate awaie,<br>'There wythe the sarvants of the Lorde<br>'Mye name shall lyve for aie. <br>'Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne<br>'I leave thys mortall lyfe<br>'Farewell, vayne worlde, and all that's deare,<br>'Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!<br>'Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes,<br>'As e'er the moneth of Maie;<br>'Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,<br>'Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.<br>Quod CANYGE, 'Tys a goodlie thynge<br>'To bee prepar'd to die; <br>'And from thys world of peyne and grefe<br>'To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie.'<br>And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,<br>And claryonnes to sounde;<br>Syr CHARLES hee herde the horses feete<br>A prauncyng onne the grounde.<br>And just before the officers,<br>His lovynge wyfe came ynne,<br>Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,<br>Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. <br>'Sweet FLORENCE! nowe I praie forbere<br>'Ynne quiet lett mee die;<br>'Praie Godde, thatt ev'ry Christian soule<br>'Maye looke onne dethe as I.<br>'Sweet FLORENCE! why these brinie teeres?<br>'Theye washe my soule awaie,<br>'And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,<br>'Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.<br>''Tys butt a journie I shall goe<br>'Untoe the lande of blysse; <br>'Nowe, as a proof of husbande's love,<br>'Receive thys holie kysse.'<br>Thenne FLORENCE, fault'ring ynne her saie,<br>Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,<br>'Ah, cruele EDWARDE! bloudie kynge!<br>'My herte ys welle nyghe broke.<br>'Ah, sweete Syr CHARLES! why wylt thou goe,<br>'Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?<br>'The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,<br>'Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.' <br>And nowe the officers came ynne<br>To brynge Syr CHARLES awaie<br>Whoe turnedd toe his lovynge wyfe,<br>And thus toe her dydd saie<br>'I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;<br>'Truste thou ynne Godde above,<br>'And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde,<br>'And ynne theyre hertes hym love.<br>'Teache them to runne the nobile race<br>'Thatt I theyre fader runne: <br>'FLORENCE! shou'd dethe thee take -- adieu!<br>'Yee officers, leade onne.'<br>Thenne FLORENCE rav'd as anie madde,<br>And dydd her tresses tere;<br>'Oh! staie, mye husbande! lorde! and lyfe!' --<br>Syr CHARLES thenne dropt a teare.<br>'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud,<br>Shee fellen onne the floore;<br>Syr CHARLES exerted alle hys myghte,<br>And march'd fromm oute the dore. <br>Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne<br>Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;<br>Lookes, thatt enshone ne moe concern<br>Thanne anie ynne the strete.<br>Before hym went the council-menne,<br>Ynne scarlett robes and golde <br>And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,<br>Muche glorious to beholde.<br>The Freers of Seincte AUGUSTYNE next<br>Appeared to the fyghte, <br>Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,<br>Of godlie monkysh plyghte.<br>Ynne diffraunt parts a godlie psaume<br>Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt;<br>Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,<br>Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.<br>Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came;<br>Echone the bowe dydd bende,<br>From rescue of kynge HENRIES friends<br>Syr CHARLES forr to defend. <br>Bolde as a lyon came Syr CHARLES;<br>Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde,<br>Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,<br>Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde.<br>Behynde hym fyve-and-twentye moe<br>Of archers stronge and stoute,<br>Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,<br>Marched ynne goodlie route.<br>Seincte JAMESES Freers marched next,<br>Echone hys parte dydd chaunt; <br>Behynde theyre backs syx mynstrelles came,<br>Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.<br>Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,<br>Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;<br>And theyre attendyng menne echone,<br>Lyke Easterne princes trickt.<br>And after them, a multitude<br>Of citizenns dydd thronge;<br>The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,<br>As hee dydd passe alonge. <br>And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,<br>Syr CHARLES dydd turne and saie,<br>O Thou, thatt savest manne fromme synne,<br>Wasshe mye soule clean thys daie!<br>Att the grete mynsterr wyndowe sat<br>The kynge ynne myckle state,<br>To see CHARLES BAWDIN goe alonge,<br>To hys most welcom fate.<br>Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe,<br>Thatt EDWARDE hee myghte heare, <br>The brave Syr CHARLES hee dydd stande uppe,<br>And thus hys wordes declare.<br>'Thou seest me; EDWARDE! traytour vile!<br>'Expos'd to infamie;<br>'Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne<br>'I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.<br>'Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,<br>'Thou wearest nowe a crowne;<br>'And hast appoynted mee to dye,<br>'By power nott thyne owne. <br>'Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie;<br>'I have beene dede 'till nowe,<br>'And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne<br>'For aie uponne my browe:<br>'Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares,<br>'Shalt rule thys fickle lande,<br>'To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule<br>'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:<br>'Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave!<br>'Shall falle onne thye owne hedde --' <br>Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge<br>Departed thenne the sledde.<br>Kynge EDWARDE'S soule rush'd to hys face,<br>Hee turn'd hys hedde awaie,<br>And to hys broder GLOUCESTER<br>Hee thus dydd speke and saie.<br>'To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe<br>'Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,<br>'Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,<br>'Hee's greater thanne a kynge! <br>'Soe lett hym die!' Duke RICHARD sayde;<br>'And maye echone oure foes<br>'Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,<br>'And feede the carryon crowes.<br>And nowe the horses gentlie drewe<br>Syr CHARLES uppe the hyghe hylle;<br>The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,<br>Hys pretious bloude to spylle.<br>Syrr CHARLES dydd uppe the scaffold goe,<br>As uppe a gilded carre <br>Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs<br>Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre.<br>And to the people hee dydd saie,<br>'Beholde you see mee dye;<br>'For servynge loyally mye kynge,<br>'Mye kynge most rightfullie.<br>As longe as EDWARDE rules thys lande,<br>'Ne quiet you wylle knowe;<br>'Youre sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,<br>'And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe. <br>'You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge,<br>'Whenne ynne adversitye;<br>'Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,<br>'And for the true cause dye.<br>Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,<br>A pray'r to Godde dydd make,<br>Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe<br>Hys partynge soule to take.<br>Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde<br>Most seemlie onne the blocke; <br>Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once<br>The able heddes-manne stroke:<br>And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,<br>And rounde the scaffolde twyne;<br>And teares, enow to washe't awaie,<br>Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.<br>The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre<br>Ynnto foure parties cutte;<br>And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde,<br>Uponne a pole was putte. <br>One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,<br>One onne the mynster-tower,<br>And one from off the castle-gate<br>The crowen dydd devoure:<br>The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate,<br>A dreery spectacle;<br>Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse,<br>Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.<br>Thus was the ende of BAWDIN'S fate:<br>Godde prosper longe oure kynge, <br>And grante hee maye, wyth BAWDIN'S soule,<br>Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Chatterton">Thomas Chatterton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529313" data-title="Bristowe Tragedie: Or The Dethe Of Syr Charles Badwin de Thomas Chatterton" data-description="THE featherd songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne.
Kynge EDWARDE sawe the ruddie streakes
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated d..."></div>
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