Guy and Amarant
Guy journeyes towards that sanctifyed ground
Whereas the Jewes fayre citye sometime stood,
Wherin our Saviours sacred head was crownd,
And where for sinfull man he shed his blood.
To see the sepulcher was his intent,
The tombe that Joseph unto Jesus lent.
With tedious miles he tyred his wearye feet,
And passed desart places full of danger;
At last with a most woefull wight did meet,
A man that unto sorrow was noe stranger.
For he had fifteen sonnes made captives all
To slavish bondage, in extremest thrall.
A gyant called Amarant detaind them,
Whom noe man durst encounter for his strength,
Who, in a castle which he held, had chaind them.
Guy questions where, and understands at length
The place not farr. - 'Lend me thy sword,' quoth hee;
'Ile lend my manhood all thy sonnes to free.'
With that he goes and lays upon the dore
Like one that sayes, I must and will come in.
The gyant never was soe rowz'd before,
For noe such knocking at his gate had bin;
Soe takes his keyes and clubb, and cometh out,
Staring with ireful countenance about.
'Sirra,' quoth hee, 'what busines hast thou heere?
Art come to feast the crowes about my walls?
Didst never heare noe ransome can him cleere
That in the compasse of my furye falls?
For making me to take a porters paines,
With this same clubb I will dash out thy braines.'
'Gyant,' quoth Guy, 'y'are quarrelsome, I see;
Choller and you seem very neere of kin;
Most dangerous at the clubb belike you bee;
I have bin better armd, though nowe goe thin.
But shew thy utmost hate, enlarge thy spight,
Keene is my weapon, and shall doe me right.'
Soe draws his sword, salutes him with the same
About the head, the shoulders, and the side,
Whilst his erected clubb doth death proclaime,
Standinge with huge Colossus' spacious stride,
Putting such vigour to his knotty beame
That like a furnace he did smoke extreame.
But on the ground he spent his strokes in vaine,
For Guy was nimble to avoyde them still,
And ever ere he heav'd his clubb againe,
Did brush his plated coat against his will:
At such advantage Guy wold never fayle
To bang him soundlye in his coate of mayle.
Att last through thirst the gyant feeble grewe,
And sayd to Guy, 'As thou'rt of humane race,
Show itt in this, give natures wants their dewe;
Let me but goe and drinke in yonder place;
Thou canst not yeeld to 'me' a smaller thing
Than to graunt life thats given by the spring.'
'I graunt thee leave,' quoth Guye, 'goe drink thy last,
Go pledge the dragon and the salvage bore,
Succeed the tragedyes that they have past;
But never thinke to taste cold water more;
Drinke deepe to Death and unto him carouse;
Bid him receive thee in his earthen house.'
Soe to the spring he goes, and slakes his thirst,
Takeing the water in extremely like
Some wracked shipp that one a rocke is burst,
Whose forced hulke against the stones does stryke;
Scooping it in soe fast with both his hands
That Guy, admiring, to behold it stands.
'Come on,' quoth Guy, 'let us to work againe;
Thou stayest about thy liquor overlong;
The fish which in the river doe remaine
Will want thereby; thy drinking doth them wrong;
But I will see their satisfaction made;
With gyants blood they must and shall be payd.'
'Villaine,' quoth Amarant, 'Ile crush thee streight;
Thy life shall pay thy daring toungs offence!
This clubb, which is about some hundred weight,
Is deathes commission to dispatch thee hence!
Dresse thee for ravens dyett, I must needes,
And breake thy bones as they were made of reedes!'
Incensed much by these bold pagan bostes,
Which worthye Guy cold ill endure to heare,
He hewes upon those bigg supporting postes
Which like two pillars did his body beare.
Amarant for those wounds in choller growes,
And desperatelye att Guy his clubb he throwes,
Which did directly on his body light
Soe violent and weighty therewithall,
That downe to ground on sudden came the knight;
And ere he cold recover from the fall,
The gyant gott his clubb againe in fist,
And aimd a stroke that wonderfullye mist.
'Traytor,' quoth Guy, 'thy falshood Ile repay,
This coward act to intercept my bloode.'
Sayes Amarant, 'Ile murther any way;
With enemyes, all vantages are good;
O could I poyson in thy nostrills blowe,
Besure of it I wold dispatch thee soe!'
'Its well,' said Guy, 'thy honest thoughts appeare
Within that beastlye bulke where devills dwell,
Which are thy tenants while thou livest heare,
But will be landlords when thou comest in hell.
Vile miscreant, prepare thee for their den,
Inhumane monster, hatefull unto men!
'But breathe thy selfe a time while I goe drinke,
For flameing Phoebus with his fyerye eye
Torments me soe with burning heat, I thinke
My thirst wolde serve to drinke an ocean drye.
Forbear a litle, as I delt with thee.'
Quoth Amarant, 'Thou hast noe foole of mee!
'Noe, sillye wretch, my father taught more witt,
How I shold use such enemyes as thou.
By all my gods I doe rejoice at itt,
To understand that thirst constraines thee now;
For all the treasure that the world containes,
One drop of water shall not coole thy vaines.
'Releeve my foe! why, 'twere a madmans part!
Refresh an adversarye, to my wrong!
If thou imagine this, a child thou art.
Noe, fellow, I have known the world too long
To be soe simple now I know thy want;
A minutes space of breathing I'll not grant.'
And with these words, heaving aloft his clubb
Into the ayre, he swings the same about,
Then shakes his lockes, and doth his temples rubb,
And like the Cyclops in his pride doth strout:
'Sirra,' says hee, 'I have you at a lift;
Now you are come unto your latest shift;
'Perish forever; with this stroke I send thee
A medicine that will doe thy thirst much good;
Take noe more care for drinke before I end thee,
And then wee'll have carouses of thy blood!
Here's at thee with a butcher's downright blow,
To please my furye with thine overthrow!'
'Infernall, false, obdurate feend,' said Guy,
'That seemst a lumpe of crueltye from hell;
Ungratefull monster, since thou dost deny
The thing to mee wherein I used thee well,
With more revenge than ere my sword did make,
On thy accursed head revenge Ile take.
'The gyants longitude shall shorter shrinke,
Except thy sun-scorcht skin be weapon proof.
Farewell my thirst! I doe disdaine to drinke.
Streames, keepe your waters to your owne behoof,
Or let wild beasts be welcome thereunto;
With those pearle drops I will not have to do.
'Here, tyrant, take a taste of my good-will;
For thus I doe begin my bloodye bout;
You cannot chuse but like the greeting ill,-
It is not that same clubb will beare you out, -
And take this payment on thy shaggye crowne'-
A blowe that brought him with a vengeance downe.
Then Guy sett foot upon the monsters brest,
And from his shoulders did his head divide,
Which with a yawninge mouth did gape unblest, -
Noe dragons jawes were ever seene soe wide
To open and to shut, - till life was spent.
Then Guy tooke keyes, and to the castle went,
Where manye woefull captives he did find,
Which had beene tyred with extremityes,
Whom he in friendly manner did unbind,
And reasoned with them of their miseryes.
Eche told a tale with teares and sighes and cryes,
All weeping to him with complaining eyes.
There tender ladyes in darke dungeons lay,
That were surprised in the desart wood,
And had noe other dyett everye day
But flesh of humane creatures for their food;
Some with their lovers bodyes had beene fed,
And in their wombes their husbands buryed.
Now he bethinkes him of his being there,
To enlarge the wronged brethren from their woes;
And, as he searcheth, doth great clamours heare,
By which sad sound's direction on he goes
Untill he findes a darksome obscure gate,
Arm'd strongly ouer all with iron plate:
That he unlockes, and enters where appeares
The strangest object that he ever saw,
Men that with famishment of many years
Were like deathes picture, which the painters draw!
Divers of them were hanged by eche thombe;
Others head-downward; by the middle, some.
With diligence he takes them from the walls,
With lybertye their thraldome to acquaint.
Then the perplexed knight their father calls,
And sayes, 'Receive thy sonnes, though poore and faint:
I promised you their lives; accept of that;
But did not warrant you they shold be fat.
'The castle I doe give thee, heere's the keyes,
Where tyranye for many yeeres did dwell;
Procure the gentle tender ladyes ease;
For pittyes sake use wronged women well:
Men easilye revenge the wrongs men do,
But poore weake women have not strength thereto.'
The good old man, even overjoyed with this,
Fell on the ground, and wold have kist Guys feete.
'Father,' quoth he, 'refraine soe base a kiss!
For age to honor youth, I hold unmeete;
Ambitious pryde hath hurt mee all it can,
I goe to mortifie a sinfull man.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Tobacco
The Indian weed, withered quite,
Green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay; all flesh is hay,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
The pipe that is so lily-white,
Shows thee to be a mortal wight;
And even such, gone with a touch,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high,
Thinke thou beholdest the vanity
Of worldly stuffe, gone with a puffe,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soule defil'd with sin,
And then the fire it doth require.
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
The ashes that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind,
That unto dust return thou must.
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
poem by George Wither
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Robin Hood And Guy Of Gisborne
When shawes been sheene, and shradds full fayre,
And leeves both large and longe,
Itt is merry, walking in the fayre forrest,
To heare the small birds songe.
The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
Amongst the leaves a lyne:
And it is by two wight yeomen,
By deare God, that I meane.
'Me thought they did mee beate and binde,
And tooke my bow mee froe;
If I bee Robin a-live in this lande,
I'le be wrocken on both them towe.'
Sweavens are swift, master,' quoth John,
'As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
For if itt be never soe lowde this night,
To-morrow it may be still.'
'Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
For John shall goe with mee:
For I'le goe seek yond wight yeomen
In greenwood where the bee.'
^ TOP
The cast on their gowne of greene,
A shooting gone are they,
Untill they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest bee;
There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
His body leaned to a tree.
A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Had beene many a man bane,
And he was cladd in his capull-hyde,
Topp, and tayle, and mayne.
'Stand you still, master,' quoth Litle John,
'Under this trusty tree,
And I will goe to yong wight yeomen,
To know his meaning trulye.'
'A, John, by me thou setts noe store,
And that's a farley thinge;
How offt send I my men beffore,
And tarry my-selfe behinde?
It is noe cunning a knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake;
And itt were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I wold thy head breake.'
But often words they breeden bale,
That parted Robin and John;
John is gone to Barnesdale,
The gates he knowes eche one.
^ TOP
And when hee came to Barnesdale,
Great heavinesse there hee hadd;
He found two of his fellowes
Were slaine both in a slade.
And Scarlett a foote flyinge was,
Over stockes and stone,
For the sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.
'Yett one shoote I'le shoote', sayes Little John,
'With Crist his might and mayne;
I'le make yond fellow that flyes soe fast
To be both glad and faine.'
John bent up a good viewe bow,
And fetteled him to shoote;
The bow was made of a tender boughe,
And fell downe to his foote.
'Woe worth thee, wicked wood,' sayd Little John,
'That ere thou grew on a tree!
For this day thou art my bale,
My foote when thou shold bee!'
This shoote it was but looselye shott,
The arrowe flew in vaine,
And it mett one of the sheriffes men;
Good William a Trent was slaine.
It had beene better for William a Trent
To hange upon a gallowe
Then for to lye in the greenwoode,
There slaine with an arrowe.
And it is syd, when men be mett,
Six can doe more then three:
And they have tane Litle John,
And bound him fast to a tre.
'Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,' quoth the sheriffe,
And hanged hye on a hill:
'But thou may fayle,' quoth Litle John,
'If itt be Christs owne will.'
Let us leave talking of Little John,
For hee is bound fast to a tree,
And talke of Guy and Robin Hood,
In the green woode where they bee.
How these two yeomen together they mett,
Under the leaves of lyne,
To see what merchandise they made
Even at that same time.
'Good morrow, good fellow,' quoth Sir Guy:
'Good morrow, good fellow,' quoth hee;
'Methinkes by this bow thou beares in thy hand,
A good archer thou seems to bee.'
'I am wilfull of my way,' quoth Sir Guye,
'And of my morning tyde:'
'I'le lead thee through the wood,' quoth Robin,
'Good fellow, I'le be thy guide.'
'I seeke an outlaw,' quoth Sir Guye,
'Men call him Robin Hood;
I had rather meet with him upon a day
Then forty pound of golde.'
'If you tow mett it wold be seene whether were better
Afore yee did part awaye;
Let us some other pastime find,
Good fellow, I thee pray.
^ TOP
'Let us some other masteryes make,
And wee will walke in the woods even;
Wee may chance meet with Robin Hoode
Att some unsett steven.'
They cutt them downe the summer shroggs
Which grew both under a bryar,
And sett them three score rodd in twinn,
To shoote the prickes full neare.
'Leade on, good fellow,' sayd Sir Guye,
'Lead on, I doe bidd thee:'
'Nay, by my faith,' quoth Robin Hood,
'The leader thou shalt bee.'
The first good shoot that Robin ledd
Did not shoote an inch the pricke froe;
Guy was an archer good enoughe,
But he cold neere shoote soe.
The second shoote Sir Guy shott,
He shotte within the garlande;
But Robin Hoode shott it better then hee,
For he clove the good pricke-wande.
'Gods blessing on thy heart!' sayes Guye,
'Goode fellow, they shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hands,
Thou were better then Robin Hood.
'Tell me thy name, good fellow,' quoth Guy,
'Under the leaves of lyne:'
'Nay, by my faith,' quoth good Robin,
'Till thou have told me thine.'
'I dwell by dale and downe,' quoth Guye,
'And I have done many a curst turne;
And he that calles me by my right name
Calles me Guye of good Gysborne.'
^ TOP
'My dwelling is in the wood,' sayes Robin;
'By thee I set right nought;
My name is Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
A fellow thou has long sought.
He that had neither beene a kithe nor kin,
Might have seene a full fayre sight,
To see how together these yeomen went,
With blades both browne and bright.
To have seene how these yeomen together fought,
Two howers of a summers day;
Itt was neither Guy nor Robin Hood
That fettled them to flye away.
Robin was rechles on a roote,
And stumbled at that tyde,
And Guy was quicke and nimble withall,
And hitt him ore the left side.
'Ah, deere Lady!' sayd Robin Hoode,
'Thou are both mother and may!
I thinke it was never mans destinye
To dye before his day.'
Robin thought on Our Lady deere,
And soone leapt up againe,
And thus he came with an awkwarde stroke;
Good Sir Guy hee has slayne.
He tooke Sir Guys head by the hayre,
And sticked itt on his bowes end:
'Thous hast beene traytor all thy liffe,
Which thing must have an ende.'
Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
That hee was never on a woman borne
Cold tell who Sir Guye was.
^ TOP
Saies, 'Lye there, lye there, good Sir Guye,
And with me be not wrothe;
If thou have had the worse stroakes at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better cloathe.'
Robin did off his gowne of greene,
Sir Guye hee did it throwe;
And hee put on that capull-hyde,
That cladd him toppe to toe.
'The bowe, the arrowes, and little horne,
And with me now I'le beare;
For now I will goe to Barnesdale,
To see how my men doe fare.'
Robin sett Guyes horne to his mouth,
A lowd blast in it he did blow;
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.
'Hearken! hearken!' sayd the sheriffe,
'I heard noe tydings but good;
For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe,
For he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
'For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blow,
Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
For yonder comes that wighty yeoman,
Cladd in his capulll-hyde.
Come hither, thou good Sir Guy,
Aske of me what thou wilt have:'
'I'le none of thy gold,' sayes Robin Hood,
'Nor I'le none of it have.'
^ TOP
'But now I have slaine the master,' he sayde,
'Let me goe strike the knave;
This is all the reward I aske,
Nor noe other will I have.'
'Thou art a madman,' said the shiriffe,
'Thou sholdest have had a knights fee;
Seeing thy asking hath beene soe badd,
Well granted it shall be.'
But Litle John heard his master speake,
Well he knew that was his steven;
'now shall I be loset,' quoth Litle John,
'With Christs might in heaven.'
But Robin hee hyed him towards Litle John,
Hee thought hee wold loose him believe;
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him did drive.
'Stand abacke! stand abacke!' sayd Robin;
'Why draw you mee soe neere?
Itt was never the use in our countrye
One's shrift another shold heere.'
But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
And losed John hand and foote,
And gave him Sir Guyes bow in his hand,
And bade it be his boote.
But John tooke Guyes bow in his hand -
His arrowes were rawstye by the roote -
The sheriffe saw Litle John draw a bow
And fettle him to shoote.
Towards his house in Nottingham
He fled full fast away,
And soe did all his companye,
Not one behind did stay.
But he cold neither soe fast goe,
Nor away soe fast runn,
But Litle John, with an arrow broade,
Did cleave his heart in twinn.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Meditation Before Sacrament
Arise my soul & hast away
Thy god doth call & canst thou stay
Thee to his table he invites
To tast of heavenly delights
He sufferd death to sett thee free
From sin; & canst thou slothfull be
To serve him should he for it call
Thy life would be a gift too small
But he desires to make it Blest
And now Invites thee to a feast
A feast of the divinest food
A feast of our own saviours flesh & blood
For shame dull sluggish soul arise
Wilt thou so great a good despise
You'de earthly kings obey with pride
& is ye king of heav'n deni'de
Thou know'st not what this act doth mean
Or would'st not sure be Backward then
The god who all has made tis he
Invites so base a worm as thee
& wilt thou then ungratefull be
No Ld I come & be thou kind
In mercy to me wretchd & blind
The way thou must not onely shew
But give me eyes to find it too
Each step I take yn to thy holy place
Ile utter Halelujahs to thy praise
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Sir Lancelot Du Lake
When Arthur first in court began,
And was approved king,
By force of armes great victorys wonne,
And conquest home did bring;
Then into England straight he came
With fifty good and able
Knights that resorted unto him,
And were of the Round Table.
And many justs and turnaments
Whereto were many prest,
Wherein some knights did farr excell,
And eke surmount the rest.
But one Sir Lancelot du Lake,
Who was approved well,
He for his deeds and feates of armes
All others did excell.
When he had rested him a while,
In play, and game, and sportt,
He said he wold goe prove himselfe,
In some adventurous sort.
He armed rode in forrest wide,
And met a damsell faire,
Who told him of adventures great,
Whereto he gave good eare.
'Why shold I not?' quoth Lancelott tho,
'For that cause came I hither.'
'Thou seemst,' quoth she, 'a knight full good,'
And I wll bring thee thither,
'Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell,
That now is of great fame;
Therfore tell me what knight thou art,
And what may be thy name.'
'My name is Lancelot du Lake.'
Quoth she, 'It likes me than;
Here dwelles a knight who never was
Yet matcht with any man;
'Who has in prison threescore knights
And four, that he did wound;
Knights of King Arthurs court they be,
And of his Table Round.'
She brought him to a river side,
And also to a tree,
Whereon a copper bason hung,
And many shields to see.
He struck soe hard, the bason broke:
And Tarquin soon he spyed:
Who drove a horse before him fast,
Whereon a knight lay tyed.
'Sir Knight,' then sayd Sir Lancelott,
'Bring me that horse-load hither,
And lay him downe, and let him rest;
Weel try our force together.
'For, as I understand, thou hast,
Soe far as thou art able,
Done great despite and shame unto
The knights of the Round Table.'
'If thou be of the Table Round,'
Quoth Tarquin, speedilye,
'Both thee and all thy fellowship
I utterly defye.'
'That's over much,' quoth Lancelott tho,
'Defend thee by and by.'
They sett their speares unto their steeds,
And each att other flye.
They coucht their speares, (their horses ran,
As though there had been thunder);
And strucke them each immidst their shields,
Wherewith they broke in sunder.
Their horsses backes brake under them,
The knights were both astound;
To avoyd their horsses they made great haste,
And light upon the ground.
They tooke them to their shields full fast,
Their swords they drew out than;
With mighty strokes most eagerlye
Each at the other ran.
They wounded were, and bled full sore,
They both for breath did stand,
And leaning on their swordes awhile,
Quoth Tarquine, 'Hold thy hand,
'And tell to me what I shall aske;'
'Say on,' quoth Lancelot tho.
'Thou art,' quoth Tarquine, 'the best knight
That ever I did know;
'And like a knight that I did hate;
Soe that thou be not hee,
I will deliver all the rest,
And eke accord with thee.'
'That is well sayd,' quoth Lancelott tho,
'But with it must be soe,
What knight is that thou hatest thus?
I pray thee to me show.'
'His name is Lancelot du Lake,
He slew my brother deere;
Him I suspect of all the rest;
I would I had him here.'
'Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne;
I am Lancelot du Lake,
Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;
King Hauds son of Schuwake;
'And I desire thee do thy worst.'
'Ho, ho,' quoth Tarquin tho,
'One of us two shall end our lives,
Before that we do go.
'If thou be Lancelot du Lake
Then welcome shalt thou bee;
Wherfore see thou thyself defend,
For now defye I thee.'
They buckled then together so,
Like unto wild boares rashing,
And with their swords and shields they ran
At one another slashing.
The ground besprinkled was with blood,
Tarquin began to yield;
For he gaveb acke for wearinesse,
And lowe did beare his shield.
This soone Sir Lancelot espyde,
He leapt upon him then,
He pull'd him downe upon his knee,
And rushing off his helm,
Forthwith he strucke his necke in two;
And when he had soe done,
From prison, threescore knights and four
Delivered everye one.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Sir Lancelot Du Lake
When Arthur first in court began,
And was approvèd king,
By force of armes great victorys wonne,
And conquest home did bring;
Then into England straight he came
With fifty good and able
Knights that resorted unto him,
And were of the Round Table.
And many justs and turnaments
Whereto were many prest,
Wherein some knights did farr excell,
And eke surmount the rest.
But one Sir Lancelot du Lake,
Who was approvèd well,
He for his deeds and feates of armes
All others did excell.
When he had rested him a while,
In play, and game, and sportt,
He said he wold goe prove himselfe,
In some adventurous sort.
He armèd rode in forrest wide,
And met a damsell faire,
Who told him of adventures great,
Whereto he gave good care.
"Why shold I not?" quoth Lancelott tho,
"For that cause came I hither."
"Thou seemst," quoth she, "a knight full good,"
And I will bring thee thither,
"Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell,
That now is of great fame;
Therefore tell me what knight thou art,
And what may be thy name."
"My name is Lancelot du Lake."
Quoth she, "It likes me than;
Here dwelles a knight who never was
Yet matcht with any man;
"Who has in prison threescore knights
And four, that he did wound;
Knights of King Arthurs court they be,
And of his Table Round."
She brought him to a river side,
And also to a tree,
Whereon a copper bason hung,
And many shields to see.
He struck soe hard, the bason broke:
And Tarquin soon he spyed:
Who drove a horse before him fast,
Whereon a knight lay tyed.
"Sir Knight," then sayd Sir Lancelòtt,
"Bring me that horse-load hither,
And lay him downe, and let him rest;
Weel try our force together.
"For, as I understand, thou hast,
Soe far as thou art able,
Done great despite and shame unto
The knights of the Round Table."
"If thou be of the Table Round,"
Quoth Tarquin, speedilye,
"Both thee and all thy fellowship
I utterly defye."
"That's over much," quoth Lancelott tho,
"Defend thee by and by."
They sett their speares unto their steeds,
And each att other flye.
They coucht their speares, (their horses ran,
As though there had been thunder);
And strucke them each immidst their shields,
Wherewith they broke in sunder.
Their horsses backes brake under them,
The knights were both astound;
To avoyd their horsses they made great haste,
And light upon the ground.
They tooke them to their shields full fast,
Their swords they drew out than;
With mighty strokes most eagerlye
Each at the other ran.
They wounded were, and bled full sore,
They both for breath did stand,
And leaning on their swordes awhile,
Quoth Tarquine, "Hold thy hand,
"And tell to me what I shall aske;"
"Say on," quoth Lancelot tho.
"Thou art," quoth Tarquine, "the best knight
That ever I did know;
"And like a knight that I did hate;
Soe that thou be not hee,
I will deliver all the rest,
And eke accord with thee."
"That is well sayd," quoth Lancelott tho,
"But sith it must be soe,
What knight is that thou hatest thus?
I pray thee to meshow."
"His name is Lancelot du Lake,
He slew my brother deere;
Him I suspect of all the rest:
I would I had him here."
"Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne;
I am Lancelot du Lake,
Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;
King Hauds son of Schuwake;
"And I desire thee do thy worst."
"Ho, ho," quoth Tarquin tho,
"One of us two shall end our lives,
Before that we do go.
"If thou be Lancelot du Lake
Then welcome shalt thou bee;
Wherfore see thou thyself defend,
For now defye I thee."
They buckled then together so,
Like unto wild boares rashing,
And with their swords and shields they ran
At one another slashing.
The ground besprinkled was with blood,
Tarquin began to yield;
For he gave backe for wearinesse,
And lowe did beare his shield.
This soone Sir Lancelot espyde,
He leapt upon him then,
He pull'd him downe upon his knee,
And rushing off his helm,
Forthwith he strucke his necke in two;
And when he had soe done,
From prison, threescore knights and four
Delivered everye one.
poem by Thomas Percy
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Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard
As it fell out on a highe holye daye,
As many bee in the yeare,
When young men and maides together do goe,
Their masses and matins to heare,
Little Musgrave came to the church door,
The priest was at the mass;
But he had more mind of the fine women,
Then he had of our Ladyes grace.
And some of them were clad in greene,
And others were clad in pall;
And then came in my Lord Barnardes wife,
The fairest among them all.
Shee cast an eye on little Musgrave
As bright as the summer sunne:
O then bethought him little Musgrave,
'This ladyes heart I have wonne.'
Quoth she, 'I have loved thee, little Musgrave,
Fulle long and manye a daye:'
'So have I loved you, ladye faire,
Yet word I never durst saye.'
'I have a bower at Bucklesford-Bury,
Full daintilye bedight;
If thoult wend thither, my little Musgrave,
Thoust lig in mine armes all night.'
Quoth hee, 'I thanke yee, ladye faire,
This kindness yee shew to mee;
And whether it be to my weale or woe,
This night will I lig with thee.'
All this beheard a litle foot-page,
By his ladyes coach as he ranne:
Quoth he, 'Thoughe I am my ladyes page,
Yet Ime my Lord Barnardes manne.
'My Lord Barnard shall knowe of this,
Although I lose a limbe.'
And ever whereas the bridges were broke,
He layd him downe to swimme.
'Asleep or awake, thou Lord Barnard,
As thou art a man of life;
Lo! this same night at Bucklesford-Bury
Little Musgrave's abed with thy wife.'
'If it be trew, thou litle foote-page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
Then all my lands in Bucklesford-Bury
I freelye will give to thee.
'But and it be a lye, thou litle foot-page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
On the highest tree in Bucklesford-Bury
All hanged shalt thou bee.
'Rise up, rise up, my merry men all,
And saddle me my good steede;
This night must I to Bucklesford-Bury,
God wott, I had never more neede.'
Then some they whistled, and some they sang,
And some did loudlye saye,
Whenever Lord Barnardes horne it blewe,
'Awaye, Musgrave, awaye.'
'Methinkes I heare the throstle cocke,
Methinkes I heare the jaye,
Methinkes I heare Lord Barnardes horne;
I would I were awaye.'
'Lye still, lye still, thou little Musgrave,
And huggle me from the cold;
For it is but some shephardes boye
A whistling his sheepe to the fold.
'Is not thy hawke upon the pearche,
Thy horse eating corne and haye?
And thou a gaye ladye within thine armes, -
And wouldst thou be away?'
By this Lord Barnard was come to the dore,
And lighted upon a stone;
And he pulled out three silver keyes,
And opened the dores eche one.
He lifted up the coverlett,
He lifted up the sheete;
'How now, how now, thou little Musgrave,
Dost find my gaye ladye sweete?'
'I find her sweete,' quoth the little Musgrave,
'The more is my griefe and paine;
Ide gladlye give three hundred poundes
That I were on yonder plaine.'
'Arise, arise thou little Musgrave,
And put thy cloathes nowe on;
It shall never be said in my countree,
That I killed a naked man.
'I have two swordes in one scabbarde,
Full deare they cost my purse;
And thou shalt have the best of them,
And I will have the worse.'
The first stroke that little Musgrave strucke,
He hurt Lord Barnard sore;
The next stroke that Lord Barnard strucke,
Little Musgrave never strucke more.
With that bespake the ladye faire,
In bed whereas she laye,
'Althoughe thou art dead, my little Musgrave,
Yet for thee I will praye;
'And wishe well to thy soule will I,
As long as I have life;
So will I not do for thee, Barnard,
Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.'
He cut her pappes from off her brest,
Great pitye it was to see
The drops of this fair ladyes bloode
Run trickling downe her knee.
'Wo worth, wo worth ye, my merrye men all,
You never were borne for my goode;
Why did you not offer to stay my hande,
When you sawe me wax so woode?
'For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte
That ever rode on a steede;
So have I done the fairest lady
That ever ware womans weede.
'A grave, a grave,' Lord Barnard cryde,
'To putt these lovers in;
But lay my ladye o' the upper hande,
For shee comes o' the better kin.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Upon The Thief
The thief, when he doth steal, thinks he doth gain;
Yet then the greatest loss he doth sustain.
Come, thief, tell me thy gains, but do not falter.
When summ'd, what comes it to more than the halter?
Perhaps, thou'lt say, The halter I defy;
So thou may'st say, yet by the halter die.
Thou'lt say, Then there's an end; no, pr'ythee, hold,
He was no friend of thine that thee so told.
Hear thou the Word of God, that will thee tell,
Without repentance thieves must go to hell.
But should it be as thy false prophet says,
Yet nought but loss doth come by thievish ways.
All honest men will flee thy company,
Thou liv'st a rogue, and so a rogue will die.
Innocent boldness thou hast none at all,
Thy inward thoughts do thee a villain call.
Sometimes when thou liest warmly on thy bed,
Thou art like one unto the gallows led.
Fear, as a constable, breaks in upon thee,
Thou art as if the town was up to stone thee.
If hogs do grunt, or silly rats do rustle,
Thou art in consternation, think'st a bustle
By men about the door, is made to take thee,
And all because good conscience doth forsake thee.
Thy case is most deplorably so bad,
Thou shunn'st to think on't, lest thou should'st be mad.
Thou art beset with mischiefs every way,
The gallows groaneth for thee every day.
Wherefore, I pr'ythee, thief, thy theft forbear,
Consult thy safety, pr'ythee, have a care.
If once thy head be got within the noose,
'Twill be too late a longer life to choose.
As to the penitent thou readest of,
What's that to them who at repentance scoff.
Nor is that grace at thy command or power,
That thou should'st put it off till the last hour.
I pr'ythee, thief, think on't, and turn betime;
Few go to life who do the gallows climb.
poem by John Bunyan
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Specula
When He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth—
It matters not
If south or north,
Bleak waste or sunny plot.
Nor think, if haply He thou seek’st be late,
He does thee wrong.
To stile or gate
Lean thou thy head, and long!
It may be that to spy thee He is mounting
Upon a tower,
Or in thy counting
Thou hast mista’en the hour.
But, if He comes not, neither do thou go
Till Vesper chime.
Belike thou then shalt know
He hath been with thee all the time.
poem by Thomas Edward Brown
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King Edward IV. And The Tanner of Tamworth
In summer time, when leaves grow greene,
And blossoms bedecke the tree,
King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
Some pastime for to see.
With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,
With horne, and eke with bowe;
To Drayon Basset he tooke his waye,
With all his lordes a rowe.
And he had ridden ore dale and downe
By eight of clocke in the day,
When he was ware of a bold tanner,
Come ryding along the waye.
A fayre russet coat the tanner had on,
Fast buttoned under his chin,
And under him a good cow-hide,
And a mare of four shilling.
'Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
Under the grene wood spraye;
And I will wend to yonder fellowe,
To weet what he will saye.
'God speede, God speede thee,' said our king,
'Thou art welcome, sir,' sayd hee.
'The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
I praye thee to shewe to mee.'
'To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe,
Fro the place where thou dost stand?
The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
Turne in upon thy right hand.'
'That is an unreadye waye,' sayd our king,
'Thou doest but jest I see;
Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye,
And I pray thee wend with mee.'
'Awaye with a vengeance!' quoth the tanner:
'I hold thee out of thy witt:
All day have I rydden on Brocke, my mare,
And I am fasting yett.'
'Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
No daynties we will spare;
All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best,
And I will paye thy fare.'
'Gramercye for nothing,' the tanner replyde,
'Thou payest no fare of mine:
I trowe I've more nobles in my purse,
Than thou hast pence in thine.'
'God give thee joy of them,' sayd the king,
'And send them well to priefe;'
The tanner wolde fame have beene away,
For he weende he had beene a thiefe.
'What art thou,' he sayde, 'thou fine fellowe?
Of thee I am in great feare;
For the cloathes thou wearest upon thy backe
Might beseeme a lord to weare.'
'I never stole them,' quoth our king,
'I tell you, sir, by the roode.'
'Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth,
And standest in midds of thy goode.'
'What tydinges heare you,' sayd the kynge,
'As you ryde farre and neare?'
'I heare no tydinges, sir, by the masse,
But that cowe-hides are deare.'
'Cowe-hides! cowe-hides! what things are those?
I marvell what they bee?'
'What, art thou a foole?' the tanner reply'd;
'I carry one under mee.'
'What craftsman art thou,' sayd the king;
'I praye thee tell me trowe.'
'I am a barker, sir, by my trade;
Nowe tell me what art thou?'
'I am a poore courtier, sir,' quoth he,
'That am forth of service worne;
And faine I wolde thy prentise bee,
Thy cunninge for the learne.'
'Marrye heaven forfend,' the tanner replyde,
'That thou my prentise were;
Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne
By fortye shilling a yere.'
'Yet one thinge wold I,' sayd our king,
'If thou wilt not seeme strange;
Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
Yet with thee I faine wold change.'
'Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
As change full well maye wee,
By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe,
I will have some boot of thee.'
'That were against reason,' sayd the king,
'I sweare, so mote I thee;
My horse is better than thy mare,
And that thou well mayst see.'
'Yea, sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
And softly she will fare;
Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss,
Aye skipping here and theare.'
'What boote wilt thou have?' our king reply'd;
'Now tell me in this stound.'
'Noe pence, nor half pence, by my faye,
But a noble in gold so round.'
'Here's twentye groates of white moneye,
Sith thou will have it mee.'
'I would have sworne now,' quoth the tanner,
'Thou hadst not had one pennie.
'But since we too have made a change,
A change we must abide;
Although thou hast gotten Brocke, my mare,
Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.'
'I will not have it,' sayd the kynge,
'I sweare, so mought I thee;
Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare,
If thou woldst give it to mee.'
The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide,
That of the cow was hilt,
And threwe it upon the king's sadelle,
That was soe fayrelye gilte.
'Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
'Tis time that I were gone:
When I come home to Gyllian, my wife,
Sheel say I am gentilmon.'
The king he tooke him up by the legge
The tanner a f** lett fall;
'Nowe marrye, goode fellowe,' sayd the kyng,
'Thy courtesye is but small.'
When the tanner he was in the kinges sadelle,
And his foote in the stirrup was,
He marvelled greatlye in his minde,
Whether it were golde or brass.
But when his steede saw the cows toile wagge,
And eke the blacke cowe-horne,
He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,
As the devill had him borne.
The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat,
And held by the pummil fast;
At length the tanner came tumbling downe,
His necke he had well-nye brast.
'Take thy horse again with a vengeance,' he sayd,
'With mee he shall not byde.'
'My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe,
But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.
'Yet if againe thou faine woldst change,
As change full well may wee,
By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tanner,
I will have some boote of thee.'
'What boote wilt thou have,' the tanner replyd,
'Nowe tell me in this stounde?'
'No pence nor half-pence, sir, by my faye,
But I will have twentye pound.'
'Here's twentye groates out of my purse,
And twentye I have of thine;
And I have one more, which we will spend
Together at the wine.'
The king set a bugle-horne to his mouthe,
And blewe both loude and shrille;
And soone came lords, and soone came knights,
Fast ryding over the hille.
'Nowe, out alas!' the tanner he cryde,
'That ever I sawe this daye!
Thou art a strong thiefe; yon come thy fellowes
Will beare my cowe-hide away.'
'They are no thieves,' the king replyde,
'I sweare, soe mote I thee;
But they are the lords of the north countrey,
Here come to hunt with mee.'
And soone before our king they came,
And knelt downe on the grounde;
Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
He had lever than twentye pounde.
'A coller, a coller, here,' sayd the king,
'A coller,' he loud gan crye;
Then woulde he lever then twentye pound,
He had not beene so nighe.
'A coller, a coller!' the tanner he sayd,
'I trowe it will breed sorrowe;
After a coller commeth a halter;
I trowe I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.'
'Be not afraid, tanner,' said our king;
'I tell thee, so mought I thee,
Lo here I make thee the best esquire
That is in the north countrie.'
'For Plumpton-Parke I will give thee,
With tenements faire beside,-
'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,-
To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.'
'Gramercye, my liege,' the tanner replyde;
'For the favour thou hast me showne,
If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth,
Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Grave. From The Anglo-Saxon
For thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born,
For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen
How long it shall be.
Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be;
Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.
Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,
The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,
Dimly and dark.
Doorless is that house,
And dark it is within;
There thou art fast detained
And Death hath the key.
Loathsome is that earth-house,
And grim within to dwell.
There thou shalt dwell,
And worms shall divide thee.
Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends
Thou hast no friend,
Who will come to thee,
Who will ever see
How that house pleaseth thee;
Who will ever open
The door for thee,
And descend for thee;
For soon thou art loathsome
And hateful to see.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Gernutus the Jew of Venice
The First Part
In Venice towne not long agoe
A cruel Jew did dwell,
Which lived all on usurie,
As Italian writers tell.
Gernutus called was the Jew,
Which never thought to dye,
Nor ever yet did any good
To them in streets that lie.
His life was like a barrow hogge,
That liveth many a day,
Yet never once doth any good
Until men will him slay.
Or like a filthy heap of dung,
That lieth in a whoard;
Which never can do any good,
Till it be spread abroad.
So fares it with the usurper,
He cannot sleep in rest,
For feare the thiefe will him pursue
To plucke him from his nest.
His hearte doth thinke on many a wile,
How to deceive the poore;
His mouth is almost ful of mucke,
Yet still he gapes for more.
His wife must lend a shilling,
For every weeke a penny,
Yet bring a pledge that is double worth,
If that you will have any.
And see, likewise, you keepe your day,
Or else you loose it all;
This was the living of the wife,
Her cow she did it call.
Within that citie dwelt that time
A marchant of great fame,
Which being distressed in his need,
Unto Gernutus came:
Desiring him to stand his friend
For twelve month and a day;
To lend to him an hundred crownes;
And he for it would pay
Whatsoever he would demand of him,
And pledges he should have:
'No' (quoth the Jew with flearing lookes),
'Sir, aske what you will have.
'No penny for the loane of it
For one you shall pay;
You may doe me as good a turne,
Before my dying day.
'But we will have a merry jeast,
For to be talked long:
You shall make me a bond,' quoth he,
'That shall be large and strong:
'And this shall be the forfeyture,
Of your owne fleshe a pound:
If you agree, make you the bond,
And here is a hundred crownes.'
'With right good will!' the marchant says:
And so the bond was made.
When twelve month and a day drew on,
That backe it should be payd,
The marchants ships were all at sea,
And money came not in;
Which way to take, or what to doe
To thinke he doth begin.
And to Gernutus strait he comes,
With cap and bended knee;
And sayde to him, 'Of curtesie,
I pray you beare with mee.
'My day is come, and I have not
The money for to pay:
And little good the forfeyture
Will doe you, I dare say.'
'With all my heart,' Gernutus sayd,
'Commaund it to your minde;
In thinges of bigger waight then this
You shall me ready finde.'
He goes his way; the day once past,
Gernutus doth not slacke
To get a sergiant presently,
And clapt him on the backe.
And layd him into prison strong,
And sued his bond withall;
And when the judgement day was come,
For judgement he did call.
The marchants friends came thither fast,
With many a weeping eye,
For other means they could not find,
But he that day must dye.
The Second Part.
'Of the Jews crueltie: setting foorth the mercfulnesse of the Judge towards the Marchant. To the tune of
Black and Yellow.
'
Some offered for his hundred crownes
Five hundred for to pay;
And some a thousand, two or three,
Yet still he did denay.
And at the last ten thousand crownes
They offered, him to save:
Gernutus sayd, 'I will no gold,
My forfeite I will have.
'A pound of fleshe is my demand,
And that shall be my hire.'
Then sayd the judge, 'Yet, good my friend,
Let me of you desire
'To take the flesh from such a place,
As yet you let him live:
Do so, and lo! an hundred crownes
To thee here will I give.'
'No, no,' quoth he, 'no, judgement here;
For this it shall be tride;
For I will have my pound of fleshe
From under his right side.'
It grieved all the companie
His crueltie to see,
For neither friend nor foe could helpe
But he must spoyled bee.
The bloudie Jew now ready is
With whetted blade in hand,
To spoyle the bloud of innocent,
By forfeit of his bond.
And as he was about to strike
In him the deadly blow,
'Stay' (quoth the judge) 'thy crueltie;
I charge thee to do so.
'Sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have,
Which is of flesh a pound,
See that thou shed no drop of bloud,
Nor yet the man confound.
'For if thou doe, like murderer
Thou here shalt hanged be:
Likewise of flesh see that thou cut
No more than longes to thee.
'For if thou take either more or lesse,
To the value of a mite,
Thou shalt be hanged presently,
As is both law and right.'
Gernutus now waxt franticke mad,
And wotes not what to say;
Quoth he at last, 'Ten thousand crownes
I will that he shall pay;
'And so I graunt to set him free.'
The judge doth answere make;
'You shall not have a penny given;
Your forfeyture now take.'
At the last he doth demaund
But for to have his owne:
'No,' quoth the judge, 'doe as you list,
Thy judgement shall be showne.
'Either take your pound of flesh,' quoth he,
'Or cancell me your bond:'
'O cruell judge,' then quoth the Jew,
'That doth against me stand!'
And so with griping grieved mind
He biddeth them fare-well:
'Then' all the people prays'd the Lord,
That ever this heard tell.
Good people, that doe heare this song,
For trueth I dare well say,
That many a wretch as ill as hee
Doth live now at this day;
That seeketh nothing but the spoyle
Of many a wealthey man,
And for to trap the innocent
Deviseth what they can.
From whome the Lord deliver me,
And every Christian too,
And send to them like sentence eke
That meaneth so to doe.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Lamentable Ballad Of The Lady's Fall. To The Tune Of In Pescod Time
Marke well my heavy, dolefull tale,
You loyall lovers all,
And heedfully beare in your brest
A gallant ladyes fall.
Long was she wooed, ere shee was wonne
To lead a wedded life,
But folly wrought her overthrowe
Before shee was a wife.
Too soone, alas! shee gave consent
And yeelded to his will,
Though he protested to be true
And faithfull to her still.
Shee felt her body altered quite,
Her bright hue waxed pale,
Her lovelye cheeks chang'd color white,
Her strength began to fayle.
Soe that with many a sorrowful sigh,
This beauteous ladye milde,
With greeved hart, perceived herselfe
To have conceived with childe.
Shee kept it from her parents sight
As close as close might bee,
And soe put on her silken gowne
None might her swelling see.
Unto her lover secretly
Her greefe she did bewray,
And, walking with him hand in hand,
These words to him did say:
'Behold,' quoth shee, a maids distresse
By love brought to thy bowe;
Behold I goe with childe by thee,
Tho none thereof doth knowe.
'The litle babe springs in my wombe
To heare its fathers voyce,
Lett it not be a bastard called,
Sith I made thee my choyce.
Come, come, my love, perform thy vowe,
And wed me out of hand;
O leave me not in this extreme
Of griefe, alas! to stand.
'Think on thy former promises,
Thy oathes and vowes eche one;
Remember with what bitter teares
To mee thou madest thy moane.
Convay me to some secrett place
And marry me with speede;
Or with thy rapyer end my life,
Ere further shame proceede.'
'Alacke! my beauteous love,' quoth hee,
'My joye and only dear,
Which way can I convay thee hence,
When dangers are so near?
Thy friends are all of hye degree,
And I of meane estate;
Full hard it is to gett thee forthe
Out of thy fathers gate.'
'Dread not thy life to save my fame,
For, if thou taken bee,
My selfe will step betweene the swords,
And take the harme on mee:
Soe shall I scape dishonor quite,
And if I should be slaine,
What could they say but that true love
Had wrought a ladyes bane.
'But feare not any further harme;
My selfe will soe devise
That I will ryde away with thee
Unknowen of mortall eyes;
Disguised like some pretty page
Ile meet thee in the darke,
And all alone Ile come to thee
Hard by my fathers parke.'
'And there,' quoth hee, 'Ile meete my deare,
If God soe lend me life,
On this day month without all fayle
I will make thee my wife.'
Then with a sweet and loving kisse
They parted presentlye,
And att their partinge brinish teares
Stoode in eche others eye.
Att length the wished day was come
On which this beauteous mayd,
With longing eyes and strange attire,
For her true lover stayd.
When any person shee espyed
Come ryding ore the plaine,
She hop'd it was her owne true love;
But all her hopes were vaine.
Then did shee weepe and sore bewayle
Her most unhappy fate;
Then did shee speake these woefull words,
As succourless she sate;
'O false, forsworne, and faithlesse man,
Disloyall in thy love,
Hast thou forgott thy promise past
And wilt thou perjured prove?
'And hast thou now forsaken mee
In this my great distresse,
To end my dayes in open shame,
Which thou mightst well redresse?
Woe worth the time I eer believ'd
That flattering tongue of thine;
Wold God that I had never seene
The teares of thy false eyne.'
And thus with many a sorrowful sigh
Homewarde shee went againe;
Noe rest came in her waterye eyes,
Shee felt such privye paine.
In travail strong shee felt that night,
With many a bitter throwe;
What woefull paines shee then did feel
Doth eche good woman knowe.
Shee called up her waiting mayd
That lay at her bedds feete,
Who, musing at her mistress woe,
Began full fast to weepe.
'Weepe not,' said shee, 'but shutt the dores
And windowes round about,
Let none bewray my wretched state,
But keepe all persons out.'
'O mistress, call your mother deare,
Of women you have neede,
And of some skilfull midwifes helpe
That better may you speed.'
'Call not my mother for thy life,
Nor fetch no woman here;
The midwifes helpe comes all too late,
My death I doe not feare.'
With that the babe sprang from her wombe
No creature being nye,
And with one sighe, which brake her hart,
This gentle dame did dye.
The lovely litle infant younge,
The mother being dead,
Resigned its new received breath
To him that had it made.
Next morning came her own true love,
Affrighted at the newes,
And he for sorrow slew himselfe,
Whom eche one did accuse.
The mother with her new borne babe
Were laide both in one grave;
Their parents overworne with woe,
No joy thenceforth cold have.
Take heed,you dayntye damsells all,
Of flattering words beware,
And to the honour of your name
Have an especial care.
Too true, alas! this story is,
As many one can tell;
By others harmes learne to be wise,
And you shall do full well.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Eternal Time, That Wastest Without Waste
Eternal Time, that wastest without waste,
That art and art not, diest, and livest still;
Most slow of all, and yet of greatest haste;
Both ill and good, and neither good nor ill:
How can I justly praise thee, or dispraise?
Dark are thy nights, but bright and clear thy days.
Both free and scarce, thou giv'st and tak'st again;
Thy womb that all doth breed, is tomb to all;
What so by thee hath life, by thee is slain;
From thee do all things rise, by thee they fall:
Constant, inconstant, moving, standing still;
Was, Is, Shall be, do thee both breed and kill.
I lose thee, while I seek to find thee out;
The farther off, the more I follow thee;
The faster hold, the greater cause of doubt;
Was, Is, I know; but Shall, I cannot see.
All things by thee are measur'd; thou, by none:
All are in thee; thou, in thyself alone.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Hymn XXVI: I Thirst, Thou Wounded Lamb of God
I thirst, thou wounded Lamb of God,
To wash me in thy cleansing blood,
To dwell within thy wounds; then pain
Is sweet, and life or death is gain.
Take my poor heart, and let it be
For ever closed to all but thee!
Seal thou my breast, and let me we;
That pledge of love for ever there!
How blest are they who still abide
Close sheltered in thy bleeding side,
Who life and strength from thence derive,
And by thee move, and in thee live.
What are our works but sin and death,
Till thou thy quickening Spirit breathe!
Thou giv'st the power thy grace to move;
O wondrous grace! O boundless love!
How can it be, thou heavenly King,
That thou shouldst us to glory bring?
Make slaves the partners of thy throne,
Decked with a never-fading crown?
Hence our hearts melt, our eyes o'erflow,
Our words are lost; nor will we know,
Nor will we think of aught beside,
'My Lord, my Love is crucified.'
Ah, Lord! enlarge our scanty thought,
To know the wonders thou hast wrought;
Unloose our stammering tongues, to tell
Thy love immense, unsearchable.
First-born of many brethren thou!
To thee, lo! all our souls we bow:
To thee our hearts and hands we give:
Thine may we die, thine may we live!
poem by Charles Wesley
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To Her Sea-Faring Lover
SHALL I thus ever long, and be no whit the neare?
And shall I still complain to thee, the which me will not hear?
Alas! say nay! say nay! and be no more so dumb,
But open thou thy manly mouth and say that thou wilt come:
Whereby my heart may think, although I see not thee,
That thou wilt come--thy word so sware--if thou a live man be.
The roaring hugy waves they threaten my poor ghost,
And toss thee up and down the seas in danger to be lost.
Shall they not make me fear that they have swallowed thee?
--But as thou art most sure alive, so wilt thou come to me.
Whereby I shall go see thy ship ride on the strand,
And think and say Lo where he comes and Sure here will he land:
And then I shall lift up to thee my little hand,
And thou shalt think thine heart in ease, in health to see me stand.
And if thou come indeed (as Christ thee send to do!)
Those arms which miss thee now shall then embrace [and hold] thee too:
Each vein to every joint the lively blood shall spread
Which now for want of thy glad sight doth show full pale and dead.
But if thou slip thy troth, and do not come at all,
As minutes in the clock do strike so call for death I shall:
To please both thy false heart and rid myself from woe,
That rather had to die in troth than live forsaken so!
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Heir Of Lynne
Of all the lords in faire Scotland
A song I will begin:
Amongst them all dwelled a lord
Which was the unthrifty Lord of Lynne.
His father and mother were dead him froe,
And so was the head of all his kinne;
He did neither cease nor blinne
To the cards and dice that he did run.
To drinke the wine that was so cleere!
With every man he would make merry.
And then bespake him John of the Scales,
Unto the heire of Lynne say'd hee,
Sayes 'how dost thou, Lord of Lynne,
Doest either want gold or fee?
Wilt thou not sell thy land so brode
To such a good fellow as me?
'For . . I . . ' he said,
'My land, take it unto thee;
I draw you to record, my lords all;'
With that he cast him a Gods pennie.
He told him the gold upon the bord,
It wanted never a bare penny.
'That gold is thine, the land is mine,
The heire of Lynne I will bee.'
'Heeres gold enough,' saithe the heire of Lynne,
'Both for me and my company.'
He drunke the wine that was so cleere,
And with every man he made merry.
Within three quarters of a yeare
His gold and fee it waxed thinne,
His merry men were from him gone,
And left himselfe all alone.
He had never a penny left in his purse,
Never a penny but three,
And one was brasse and another was lead
And another was white mony.
'Now well-a-day!' said the heire of Lynne,
'Now well-a-day, and woe is mee!
For when I was the Lord of Lynne,
I neither wanted gold nor fee;
'For I have sold my lands so broad,
And have not left me one penny!
I must go now and take some read
Unto Edenborrow and beg my bread.'
He had not beene in Edenborrow
Nor three quarters of a yeare,
But some did give him and some said nay,
And some bid 'to the deele gang yee!
'For if we should hang some land selfeer,
The first we would begin with thee.'
'Now well-a-day!' said the heire of Lynne,
'Now well-a-day, and woe is mee!
'For now I have sold my lands so broad
That merry man is irke with mee;
But when that I was the Lord of Lynne
Then on my land I lived merrily;
'And now I have sold my land so broade
That I have not left me one pennye!
God be with my father!' he said,
'On his land he lived merrily.'
Still in a study there as he stood,
He unbethought him of a bill,
He unbethought him of a bill
Which his father had left with him.
Bade him he should never on it looke
Till he was in extreame neede,
'And by my faith,' said the heire of Lynne,
'Then now I had never more neede.'
He tooke the bill and looked it on,
Good comfort that he found there;
It told him of a castle wall
Where there stood three chests in feare:
Two were full of the beaten gold,
The third was full of white money.
He turned then downe his bags of bread
And filled them full of gold so red.
Then he did never cease nor blinne
Till John of the Scales house he did winne.
When that he came John of the Scales,
Up at the speere he looked then;
There sate three lords upon a rowe,
And John o' the Scales sate at the bord's head,
And John o' the Scales sate at the bord's head
Because he was the lord of Lynne.
And then bespake the heire of Lynne
To John o' the Scales wife thus sayd hee,
Sayd 'Dame, wilt thou not trust me one shott
That I may sit downe in this company?'
'Now Christ's curse on my head,' she said,
'If I do trust thee one pennye,'
Then bespake a good fellowe,
Which sate by John o' the Scales his knee,
Said 'have thou here, thou heire of Lynne,
Forty-pence I will lend thee,--
Some time a good fellow thou hast beene
And other forty if it need bee.'
They drunken wine that was so cleere,
And every man they made merry,
And then bespake him John o' the Scales
Unto the Lord of Lynne said hee;
Said 'how doest thou heire of Lynne,
Since I did buy thy lands of thee?
I will sell it to thee twenty better cheepe,
Nor ever did I buy it of thee.'
'I draw you to recorde, lords all:'
With that he cast him god's penny;
Then he tooke to his bags of bread,
And they were full of the gold so red.
He told him the gold then over the borde
It wanted never a broad pennye;
'That gold is thine, the land is mine,
And the heire of Lynne againe I will bee.'
'Now well-a-day!' said John o' the Scales' wife,
'Well-a-day, and woe is me!
Yesterday I was the lady of Lynne,
And now I am but John o' the Scales wife!'
Says 'have thou here, thou good fellow,
Forty pence thou did lend me;
Forty pence thou did lend me,
And forty I will give thee,
I'll make thee keeper of my forrest,
Both of the wild deere and the tame.'
But then bespake the heire of Lynne,
These were the words and thus spake hee,
'Christ's curse light upon my crowne
If ere my land stand in any jeopardye!'
poem by Andrew Lang
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Hymn XXVI: I Thirst, Thou Wounded Lamb of God
I thirst, thou wounded Lamb of God,
To wash me in thy cleansing blood,
To dwell within thy wounds; then pain
Is sweet, and life or death is gain.
Take my poor heart, and let it be
For ever closed to all but thee!
Seal thou my breast, and let me we;
That pledge of love for ever there!
How blest are they who still abide
Close sheltered in thy bleeding side,
Who life and strength from thence derive,
And by thee move, and in thee live.
What are our works but sin and death,
Till thou thy quickening Spirit breathe!
Thou giv'st the power thy grace to move;
O wondrous grace! O boundless love!
How can it be, thou heavenly King,
That thou shouldst us to glory bring?
Make slaves the partners of thy throne,
Decked with a never-fading crown?
Hence our hearts melt, our eyes o'erflow,
Our words are lost; nor will we know,
Nor will we think of aught beside,
"My Lord, my Love is crucified."
Ah, Lord! enlarge our scanty thought,
To know the wonders thou hast wrought;
Unloose our stammering tongues, to tell
Thy love immense, unsearchable.
First-born of many brethren thou!
To thee, lo! all our souls we bow:
To thee our hearts and hands we give:
Thine may we die, thine may we live!
poem by John Wesley
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Sonnet 149: Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not
Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,
When I against my self with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee when I forgot
Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon my self with present moan?
What merit do I in my self respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind:
Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Holy Sonnet II: As Due by Many Titles
As due by many titles I resigne
My selfe to thee, O God, first I was made
By thee, and for thee, and when I was decay'd
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine;
I am thy sonne, made with thy selfe to shine,
Thy servant, whose paines thou hast still repaid,
Thy sheepe, thine Image, and, till I betray'd
My selfe, a temple of thy Spirit divine;
Why doth the devill then usurpe on mee?
Why doth he steale, nay ravish that's thy right?
Except thou rise and for thine own worke fight,
Oh I shall soone despaire, when I doe see
That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt'not chuse me,
And Satan hates mee, yet is loth to lose me.
poem by John Donne
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In My Solitary Hours in My Dear Husband his Absence
O Lord, Thou hear'st my daily moan
And see'st my dropping tears.
My troubles all are Thee before,
My longings and my fears.
Thou hitherto hast been my God;
Thy help my soul hath found.
Though loss and sickness me assailed,
Through Thee I've kept my ground.
And Thy abode Thou'st made with me;
With Thee my soul can talk;
In secret places Thee I find
Where I do kneel or walk.
Though husband dear be from me gone,
Whom I do love so well,
I have a more beloved one
Whose comforts far excel.
O stay my heart on Thee. my God,
Uphold my fainting soul.
And when I know not what to do,
I'll on Thy mercies roll.
My weakness. Thou dost know full well
Of body and of mind;
I in this world no comfort have,
But what from Thee I find.
Though children Thou has given me,
And friends I have also,
Yet if I see Thee not through them
They are no joy, but woe.
O shine upon me, blessed Lord,
Ev'n for my Saviour's sake;
In Thee alone is more than all,
And there content I'll take.
O hear me, Lord, in this request
As Thou before hast done,
Bring back my husband, I beseech,
As Thou didst once my son.
So shall I celebrate Thy praise
Ev'n while my days shall last
And talk to my beloved one
Of all Thy goodness past.
So both of us Thy kindness, Lord,
With praises shall recount
And serve Thee better than before
Whose blessings thus surmount.
But give me, Lord, a better heart,
Then better shall I be,
To pay the vows which I do owe
Forever unto Thee.
Unless Thou help, what can I do
But still my frailty show?
If Thou assist me, Lord,
I shall Return Thee what I owe.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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