A mery Iest
Sometimes in France, a woman dwelt,
Whose husband being dead:
Within a yeere, or somwhat more,
An other did her wed.
This good wife had of wealth great store,
Yet was her wit but thin:
To shew what happe to her befell,
My Muse doth now begin.
It chaunced that a scholler poore,
Attirde in course aray,
To see his friends that dwelt farre thence,
From Paris tooke his way:
The garments were all rent and torne
Wherwith this wight was clad:
And in his purse, to serue his neede,
Not one deneere he had:
Hee was constrainde to craue the almes,
Of those which oft would giue,
His needy and his poore estate
With some thing to relieue.
This scholler on a frostie morne,
By chaunce came to the doore:
Of this old silly womans house,
Of whome wee spake before.
The husband then was not at home,
Hee craueth of the dame:
Who had him in, and gaue him meate,
And askt from whence hee came.
I came (quoth hee) from Paris towne,
From Paradise (quoth she)
Men call that Paradise the place,
Where all good soules shalbe.
Cham zure my vurst goodman is dere,
Which died this other yeere:
Chould geue my friend a good gray groate,
Some newes of him to heare.
Hee saw shee did mistake his wordes,
And thought to make some glee:
And saide, your husband is in health,
I lately did him see.
Now by my troth (quoth shee) cham glad,
Good scholler doe declare:
Was not hee wroth, because I sent
Him from this world so bare?
In deede (quoth he) he was disppleasd,
And thought it farre vnmeete,
You hauing all to send him hence,
With nothing but a sheete.
(Quoth shee) good scholer, let me know,
When thou returnst agayne,
Hee answerd, Dame I will be there,
Within this weeke or twayne.
Shee sayde, my friend if that iche durst
Presume to be so bolde,
Chould pray thee carrie him some clothes,
To keepe him from the colde.
Hee saide he woulde with all poste haste,
Into the towne shee hies,
Hat, doublet, shert, coate, hose and shoes.
Shee there for husband buyes,
Shee praying him in earnest sorte,
It safely to conuey,
Did geue him money in his purse,
And so he went his way,
Not halfe of halfe an howre was past,
Ere husband hers was come,
What newes shee heard from Paradise,
Shee tolde him all and some.
And farther did to him declare,
What token shee had sent,
Whereat her husband waxed wroth,
And woondrous ill content.
He calde her sotte, and doating foole,
And after him doth ride,
The Scholler was within a Hedge,
And him a farre espide.
Hee was afrayde, and downe doeth fling
His fardell in a dike,
The man came neere, and askt him newes,
Of one whom hee did seeke.
That bare a fardell at his backe,
The scholler musde a while,
Then answearing, said, such one I saw,
Passe ouer yonder style.
With hasty speede he downe alightes,
And doth the scholler pray,
Till he the man had ouertane,
So long the horse to stay.
Untill hee passed out of sight,
Full still the scholer bides,
Who taking then his fardell on
His horse, away he rides.
When he returnd and saw himselfe,
By scholer flouted so,
Your selues may iudge what cheere he made,
If he were wroth or no.
He sware I thinke a hundred oathes,
At length per mundum toots,
For that he had no shoes to weare,
Martch homewardes in his bootes.
His wife did meete him at the doore.
Hayee cought man? (quoth shee)
No Dame (he sayde) he caught my horse:
The Diuel take him and thee.
With that shee laught, and clapt her hands,
And sayde cham glad ich sweare,
For nowe he hath a horse to ride,
He wilbe quickly there.
When that her husband well had wayde,
That remedy there was none,
He takes his fortune in good parte,
And makes no farther mone.
Now whether that this honest wife,
Did loue her first good man,
To such as shall peruse this tale,
The case I leaue to scan.
poem by Humfrey Gifford
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Related quotes
Kisses
My love and I for kisses play'd,
Shee would keepe stake, I was content,
But when I wonne shee would be paid;
This made mee aske her what she meant.
Pray, since I see (quoth shee) your wrangling vayne,
Take your owne kisses, give me myne againe.
poem by William Strode
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Consolatorium, Ad Parentes
Lett her parents then confesse
That they beleeve her happinesse,
Which now they question. Thinke as you
Lent her the world, Heaven lent her you:
And is it just then to complayne
When each hath but his owne againe?
Then thinke what both your glories are
In her preferment: for tis farre
Nobler to gett a Saint, and beare
A childe to Heaven than an Heyre
To a large Empire. Thinke beside
Shee dyde not yong, but livde a Bride.
Your best wishes for her good
Were but to see her well bestowde:
Was shee not so? Shee marryed to
The heyre of all things: who did owe
Her infant Soule, and bought it too.
Nor was shee barren: markt you not
Those pretty little Graces, that
Play'd round about her sicke bedde; three
Th' eldst Faith, Hope, & Charity.
Twere pretty bigge ones, and the same
That cryde so on theyr Fathers name.
The yongst is gone with Her: the two
Eldest stay to comfort you,
And little though they bee, they can
Master the biggest foes of man.
Lastly thinke that Hir abode
With you was some fewe years boarde;
After hir marriage: now shee's gone
Home, royally attended on:
And if you had Elisha's sight
To see the number of her bright
Attendants thither; or Paul's rapt sprite
To see her Welcome there; why then,
Wish if you could Her here agen.
Ime sure you could not: but all passion
Would loose itselfe in admiration,
And strong longings to be there
Where, cause shee is, you mourn for Her
poem by William Strode
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My Love in Her Attire
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew her witt,
It doth so well become her:
For eu'ry season she hath dressings fitt,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No Beautie shee doth misse,
When all her Robes are on:
But Beauties selfe shee is,
When all her Robes are gone.
My Love in Her Attire
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew her witt,
It doth so well become her:
For eu'ry season she hath dressings fitt,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No Beautie shee doth misse,
When all her Robes are on:
But Beauties selfe shee is,
When all her Robes are gone.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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My Love In Her Attire
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew her witt,
It doth so well become her:
For eu'ry season she hath dressings fitt,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No Beautie shee doth misse,
When all her Robes are on:
But Beauties selfe shee is,
When all her Robes are gone.
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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Upon my Daughter Hannah Wiggin her recouery from a dangerous feaver.
Bles't bee thy Name, who did'st restore
To health my Daughter dear
When death did seem ev'n to approach,
And life was ended near.
Gravnt shee remember what thov'st done,
And celebrate thy Praise;
And let her Conversation say,
Shee loues thee all thy Dayes.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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The Old Cloak
This winters weather itt waxeth cold,
And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold
That all our cattell are like to spill.
Bell my wife, who loves noe strife,
She sayd unto my quietlye,
'Rise up, and save cow Crumbockes liffe,
Man, put thine old cloake about thee.'
He.
'O Bell, why dost thou flyte, 'and scorne?'
Thou kenst my cloake is very thine;
Itt is soe are and overworne,
A cricke he theron cannot runn:
Then Ile noe longer borrowe nor lend,
'For once He new appareld bee,
To-morrow He to towne and spend,'
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.'
She.
'Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,
She ha beene alwayes true to the payle,
Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow,
And other things shee will not fayle;
I wold be loth to see her pine;
Good husband, councell take of mee,
It is not for us to go soe fine,
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.'
He.
'My cloake it was a verry good cloake,
Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,
But now it is not worth a groat,
I have had it for four and forty yeere;
Sometime itt was of cloth in graine,
'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see;
It will neither hold out winde nor raine:
And Ile have a new cloake about mee.'
She.
'It is four and fortye yeeres agoe
Since the one of us the other did ken,
And we have had betwixt us towe,
Of children either nine or ten;
Wee have brought them up to women and men
In the feare of God I trow they bee;
And why wilt thou thyself mistaken?
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.'
He.
'O Bell my wiffe, why dost thou floute!
Now is nowe, and then was then;
Seeke now all the world throughout,
Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen;
They are clad in blacke, greene, yellowe, or 'gray,'
Soe far above their owne degree;
Once in my life Ile 'do as they'
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.'
She.
'King Stephen was a worthy peere,
His breeches cost him but a crowne;
He held them sixpence all to deere;
Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne.
He was a wight of high renowne,
And thouse but of a low degree;
Itt's pride that putts the countrye downe;
Then take thine old cloake about thee.'
He.
''Bell my wife she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can;
And oft, to live a quiet life,
I am forced to yield, though Ime good-man'
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape,
Unlesse he first give oer the plea;
As wee began wee now mun leave,
And Ile take mine old cloake about mee.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Posies Bracelets
This keepes my hands
From Cupid's bands.
Goe, keepe that hand
From Hymen's band.
Silke though thou bee
More soft is hee\shee
That weareth thee.
Vouchsafe my prisoners thus to bee--
Hee\Shee's faster bound that sent it thee.
When you putt on this little band
Think then I take you by the hand
poem by William Strode
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Elegy II: The Anagram
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for, ſhee
Hath all things, whereby others beautious bee,
For, though her eyes be ſmall, her mouth is great,
Though they be Ivory, yet her teeth be jeat,
Though they be dimme, yet ſhe is light enough,
And though her harſh haire fall, her skinne is rough;
What though her cheeks be yellow, her haire's red,
Give her thine, and ſhe hath a maydenhead.
Theſe things are beauties elements, where theſe
Meet in one, that one muſt, as perfect, pleaſe.
If red and white and each good quality
Be in thy wench, ne'r aske where it doth lye.
In buying things perfum'd, we aske; if there
Be muske and amber in it, but not where.
Though all her parts be not in th'uſuall place,
She'hath yet an Anagram of a good face.
If we might put the letters but one way,
In the leane dearth of words, what could wee ſay?
When by the Gamut ſome Muſitions make
A perfect ſong, others will undertake,
By the ſame Gamut chang'd, to equall it.
Things ſimply good, can never be unfit;
She's faire as any, if all be like her,
And if none bee, then ſhe is ſingular.
All love is wonder; if wee juſtly doe
Account her wonderfull, why not lovely too?
Love built on beauty, ſoone as beauty, dies,
Chuſe this face, chang'd by no deformities;
Women are like Angels; the faire be
Like thoſe which fell to worſe; but ſuch as ſhee,
Like to good Angels, nothing can impaire:
'Tis leſſe griefe to be foule, then to'have beene faire.
For one nights revels, ſilke and gold we chuſe,
But, in long journeyes, cloth, and leather uſe.
Beauty is barren oft; beſt huſbands ſay
There is beſt land, where there is fouleſt way.
Oh what a ſoveraigne Plaiſter will ſhee bee
If thy paſt ſinnes have taught thee jealouſie!
Here needs no ſpies, nor eunuches; her commit
Safe to thy foes; yea, to a Marmoſit.
When Belgiaes citties, the round countries drowne,
That durty fouleneſſe guards, and armes the towne:
So doth her face guard her; and ſo, for thee,
Which, forc'd by buſineſſe, abſent oft muſt bee,
Shee, whoſe face, like clouds, turnes the day to night,
Who, mightier thē the ſea, makes Moores ſeem white,
Who, though ſeaven yeares, ſhe in the Stews had laid,
A Nunnery durſt receive, and thinke a maid,
And though in childbeds labour ſhe did lie,
Midwifes would ſweare, 'twere but a tympanie,
Whom, if ſhee accuſe her ſelfe, I credit leſſe
Then witches, which impoſſibles confeſſe.
One like none, and lik'd of none, fitteſt were,
For, things in faſhion every man will weare.
poem by John Donne
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The Boy and the Mantle
In the third day of May,
To Carleile did come
A kind curteous child,
That cold much of wisdome.
A kirtle and a mantle
This child had uppon,
With brouches and ringes
Full richelye bedone.
He had a sute of silke
About his middle drawne;
Without he cold of curtesye,
He thought itt much shame.
"God speed thee, King Arthur,
Sitting at thy meate:
And the goodly Queene Guénever
I cannott her forgett.
"I tell you, lords, in this hall,
I hett you all to heede,
Except you be the more surer,
Is you for to dread."
He plucked out of his poterner,
And longer wold not dwell;
He pulled forth a pretty mantle,
Betweene two nut-shells.
"Have thou here, King Arthur,
Have thou heere of mee;
Give itt to thy comely queene,
Shapen as itt is alreadye.
"Itt shall never become that wiffe,
That hath once done amisse:-"
Then every knight in the kings court
Began to care for his.
Forth came dame Guénever;
To the mantle shee her hied;
The ladye shee was newfangle,
But yett shee was affrayd.
When shee had taken the mantle,
She stoode as shee had beene madd:
It was from the top to the toe
As sheeres had itt shread.
One while was it gule,
Another while was itt greene;
Another while was it wadded;
Ill itt did her beseeme.
Another while was it blacke,
And bore the worst hue:
"By my troth," quoth King Arthur,
"I thinke thou be not true."
Shee threw downe the mantle,
That bright was of blee;
Fast, with a rudd redd,
To her chamber can shee flee.
She curst the weaver and the walker
That clothe that had wrought,
And bade a vengeance on his crowne
That hither hath itt brought.
"I had rather be in a wood,
Under a greene tree,
Then in King Arthurs court
Shamed for to bee."
Kay called forth his ladye,
And bade her come neere;
Saies, "Madam, and thou be guiltye,
I pray thee hold thee there."
Forth came his ladye,
Shortlye and anon;
Boldlye to the mantle
Then is shee gone.
When she had tane the mantle,
And cast it her about,
Then was shee bare
Before all the rout.
Then every knight,
That was in the kings court,
Talked, laughed, and showted
Full oft att that sport.
She threw downe the mantle,
That bright was of blee;
Fast, with a red rudd,
To her chamber can shee flee.
Forth came an old knight
Pattering ore a creede,
And he proferred to this little boy
Twenty markes to his meede,
And all the time of the Christmasse,
Willinglye to ffeede;
For why this mantle might
Doe his wiffe some need.
When she had tane the mantle,
Of cloth that was made,
Shee had no more left on her,
But a tassell and a threed:
Then every knight in the kings court
Bade evill might shee speed.
Shee threw downe the mantle,
That bright was of blee;
And fast, with a redd rudd,
To her chamber can shee flee.
Craddocke called forth his ladye,
And bade her come in;
Saith, "Winne this mantle, ladye,
With a litle dinne.
"Winne this mantle, ladye,
And it shal be thine,
If thou never did amisse
Since thou wast mine."
Forth came Craddockes ladye,
Shortlye and anon;
But boldlye to the mantle
Then is shee gone.
When she had tane the mantle,
And cast it her about,
Upp att her great toe
It began to crinkle and crowt:
Shee said, "Bowe downe, mantle,
And shame me not for nought.
"Once I did amisse,
I tell you certainlye,
When I kist Craddockes mouth
Under a greene tree;
When I kist Craddockes mouth
Before he marryed mee."
When shee had her shreeven,
And her sines shee had tolde,
The mantle stoode about her
Right as shee wold,
Seemelye of coulour,
Glittering like gold:
Then every knight in Arthurs court
Did her behold.
Then spake dame Guénever
To Arthur our king;
"She hath tane yonder mantle
Not with right, but with wronge.
"See you not yonder woman,
That maketh her self soe cleane?
I have seene tane out of her bedd
Of men fiveteene;
"Priests, clarkes, and wedded men
From her, bedeene:
Yett shee taketh the mantle,
And maketh her self cleane."
Then spake the little boy,
That kept the mantle in hold;
Sayes, "King, chasten thy wiffe,
Of her words shee is to bold:
"Shee is a bitch and a witch,
And a whore bold:
King, in thine owne hall
Thou art a cuckold."
The little boy stoode
Looking out a dore;
And there as he was lookinge
He was ware of a wyld bore.
He was ware of a wyld bore,
Wold have werryed a man:
He pulld forth a wood kniffe,
Fast thither that he ran:
He brought in the bores head,
And quitted him like a man.
He brought in the bores head,
And was wonderous bold:
He said there was never a cuckolds kniffe
Carve itt that cold.
Some rubbed their knives
Uppon a whetstone:
Some threw them under the table,
And said they had none.
King Arthur and the child
Stood looking upon them;
All their knives edges
Turned backe againe.
Craddocke had a little knive
Of iron and of steele;
He britled the bores head
Wonderous weele,
That every knight in the kings court
Had a morssell.
The little boy had a horne,
Of red gold that ronge:
He said there was "noe cuckolde
Shall drinke of my horne,
But he shold it sheede,
Either behind or beforne."
Some shedd on their shoulder,
And some on their knee;
He that cold not hitt his mouthe,
Put it in his eye:
And he that was a cuckold
Every man might him see.
Craddocke wan the horne,
And the bores head:
His ladie wan the mantle
Unto her meede.
Everye such a lovely ladye
God send her well to speede.
poem by Thomas Percy
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Childe Waters
Childe Waters in his stable stoode
And stroakt his milke-white steede;
To him a fayre yonge ladye came
As ever ware womans weede.
Sayes, 'Christ you save, good Childe Waters,'
Sayes, 'Christ you save and see;
My girdle of gold that was too longe,
Is now too short for mee.
'And all is with one childe of yours
I feele sturre at my side;
My gowne of greene it is too straighte;
Before, it was too wide.'
'If the childe be mine, faire Ellen,' he sayd,
'Be mine, as you tell mee,
Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
Take them your owne to bee.
'If the childe be mine, faire Ellen,' he sayd,
'Be mine, as you doe sweare,
Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
And make that childe your heyre.'
Shee sayes, 'I had rather have one kisse,
Childe Waters, of thy mouth,
Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
That lye by north and southe.
'And I had rather have one twinkling,
Childe Waters, of thine ee,
Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
To take them mine owne to bee.'
'To-morrowe, Ellen, I must forth ryde
Farr into the north countree;
The fayrest ladye that I can finde,
Ellen, must goe with mee.'
''Thoughe I am not that ladye fayre,
Yet let me goe with thee:'
And ever I pray you, Childe Waters,
Your foot-page let me bee.'
'If you will my foot-page bee, Ellen,
As you doe tell to mee,
Then you must cut your gowne of greene
An inch above your knee:
'Soe must you doe your yellowe lockes,
An inch above your ee;
You must tell no man what is my name;
My foot-page then you shall bee.'
Shee, all the longe daye Childe Waters rode,
Ran barefoote by his syde,
Yet was he never soe courteous a knighte,
To say, 'Ellen, will you ryde?'
Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters rode,
Ran barefoote thorow the broome,
Yet was hee never soe courteous a knighte,
To say, 'put on your shoone.'
'Ride softlye,' shee sayd, 'O Childe Waters,
Why doe you ryde so fast?
The childe, which is no mans but thine,
My bodye itt will brast.'
Hee sayth, 'Seest thou yonder water, Ellen,
That flows from banke to brimme?' -
'I trust in God, O Childe Waters,
You never will see me swimme.'
But when shee came to the water side,
She sayled to the chinne:
'Nowe the Lord of heaven be my speede,
For I must learne to swimme.'
The salt waters bare up her clothes;
Our Ladye bare up her chinne;
Childe Waters was a woeman, good Lord,
To see faire Ellen swimme!
And when shee over the water was,
Shee then came to his knee:
Hee sayd, 'Come hither, thou fayre Ellen,
Loe yonder what I see.
'Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
Of redd gold shines the yate:
Of twenty-foure faire ladyes there,
The fairest is my mate.
'Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
Of redd golde shines the towre:
There are twenty-four fayre ladyes there,
The fayrest is my paramoure.'
'I see the hall now, Childe Waters,
Of redd golde shines the yate:
God give you good now of yourselfe,
And of your worthye mate.
'I see the hall now, Childe Waters,
Of redd golde shines the towre:
God give you good now of yourselfe,
And of your paramoure.'
There twenty-four fayre ladyes were
A playing at the ball,
And Ellen, the fayrest ladye there,
Must bring his steed to the stall.
There twenty-four fayre ladyes were
A playinge at the chesse,
And Ellen, the fayrest ladye there,
Must bring his horse to gresse.
And then bespake Childe Waters sister,
These were the wordes sayd shee:
'You have the prettyest page, brother,
That ever I did see;
'But that his bellye it is so bigge,
His girdle stands soe hye;
And ever I pray you, Childe Waters,
Let him in my chamber lye.'
'It is not fit for a little foot-page,
That has run throughe mosse and myre,
To lye in the chamber of any ladye,
That weares soe riche attyre.
'It is more meete for a little foot-page,
That has run throughe moss and myre,
To take his supper upon his knee,
And lye by the kitchen fyre.'
Now when they had supped every one,
To bedd they tooke theyr waye:
He sayd, 'Come hither, my little foot-page,
And hearken what I saye.
'Goe thee downe into yonder towne,
And lowe into the streete;
The fayrest ladye that thou canst finde,
Hyre in mine armes to sleepe;
And take her up in thine armes twaine,
For filing of her feete.'
Ellen is gone into the towne,
And lowe into the streete;
The fayrest ladye that shee colde finde
She hyred in his armes to sleepe;
And tooke her up in her armes twaine,
For filing of her feete.
'I praye you nowe, good Childe Waters,
Let mee lye at your feete;
For there is noe place about this house,
Where I may 'saye a sleepe.'
'He gave her leave, and fair Ellen
'Down at his beds feet laye;
This done the nighte drove on apace,
And when it was neare the daye,
Hee sayd, 'Rise up, my little foot-page,
Give my steede corne and haye;
And give him nowe the good black oates,
To carry mee better awaye.'
Up then rose the faire Ellen,
And gave his steed corne and haye;
And soe shee did the good black oates,
To carry him the better awaye.
She leaned her back to the manger side,
And grievouslye did groane;
She leaned her back to the manger side,
And there shee made her moane.
And that beheard his mother deare,
Shee heard 'her woefull woe:'
She sayd, 'Rise up, thou Childe Waters,
And into thy stable goe.
'For in thy stable is a ghost,
That grievouslye doth grone;
Or else some woman laboures with childe,
Shee is soe woe-begone.'
Up then rose Childe Waters soone,
And did on his shirte of silke;
And then he put on his other clothes,
On his bodye as white as milke.
And when he came to the stable dore,
Full still there hee did stand,
That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellen,
Howe shee made her monand.
She sayd, 'Lullabye, mine own dear childe,
Lullabye, deare childe, deare;
I wolde thy father were a kinge,
Thy mothere ladye on a biere.'
'Peace nowe,' hee sayd, 'good, faire Ellen,
Bee of good cheere, I praye;
And the bridale and the churchinge bothe
Shall bee upon one daye.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Madge: Ye Hoyden
At Madge, ye hoyden, gossips scofft,
Ffor that a romping wench was shee--
"Now marke this rede," they bade her oft,
"Forsooken sholde your folly bee!"
But Madge, ye hoyden, laught & cried,
"Oho, oho," in girlish glee,
And noe thing mo replied.
II
No griffe she had nor knew no care,
But gayly rompit all daies long,
And, like ye brooke that everywhere
Goes jinking with a gladsome song,
Shee danct and songe from morn till night,--
Her gentil harte did know no wrong,
Nor did she none despight.
III
Sir Tomas from his noblesse halle
Did trend his path a somer's daye,
And to ye hoyden he did call
And these ffull evill words did say:
"O wolde you weare a silken gown
And binde your haire with ribands gay?
Then come with me to town!"
IV
But Madge, ye hoyden, shoke her head,--
"I'le be no lemman unto thee
For all your golde and gownes," shee said,
"ffor Robin hath bespoken mee."
Then ben Sir Tomas sore despight,
And back unto his hall went hee
With face as ashen white.
V
"O Robin, wilt thou wed this girl,
Whenas she is so vaine a sprite?"
So spak ffull many an envious churle
Unto that curteyse countrie wight.
But Robin did not pay no heede;
And they ben wed a somer night
& danct upon ye meade.
VI
Then scarse ben past a yeare & daye
Whan Robin toke unto his bed,
And long, long time therein he lay,
Nor colde not work to earn his bread;
in soche an houre, whan times ben sore,
Sr. Tomas came with haughtie tread
& knockit at ye doore.
VII
Saies: "Madge, ye hoyden, do you know
how that you once despighted me?
But He forgiff an you will go
my swete harte lady ffor to bee!"
But Madge, ye hoyden, heard noe more,--
straightway upon her heele turnt shee,
& shote ye cottage doore.
VIII
Soe Madge, ye hoyden, did her parte
whiles that ye years did come and go;
't was somer allwais in her harte,
tho' winter strewed her head with snowe.
She toilt and span thro' all those years
nor bid repine that it ben soe,
nor never shad noe teares.
IX
Whiles Robin lay within his bed,
A divell came and whispered lowe,--
"Giff you will doe my will," he said,
"None more of sickness you shall knowe!"
Ye which gave joy to Robin's soul--
Saies Robin: "Divell, be it soe,
an that you make me whoale!"
X
That day, upp rising ffrom his bed,
Quoth Robin: "I am well again!"
& backe he came as from ye dead,
& he ben mickle blithe as when
he wooed his doxy long ago;
& Madge did make ado & then
Her teares ffor joy did flowe.
XI
Then came that hell-born cloven thing--
Saies: "Robin, I do claim your life,
and I hencefoorth shall be your king,
and you shall do my evill strife.
Look round about and you shall see
sr. Tomas' young and ffoolish wiffe--
a comely dame is shee!"
XII
Ye divell had him in his power,
and not colde Robin say thereto:
Soe Robin from that very houre
did what that divell bade him do;
He wooed and dipt, and on a daye
Sr. Tomas' wife and Robin flewe
a many leagues away.
XIII
Sir Tomas ben wood wroth and swore,
And sometime strode thro' leaf & brake
and knockit at ye cottage door
and thus to Madge, ye hoyden, spake:
Saies, "I wolde have you ffor mine own,
So come with mee & bee my make,
syn tother birds ben flown."
XIV
But Madge, ye hoyden, bade him noe;
Saies: "Robin is my swete harte still,
And, tho' he doth despight me soe,
I mean to do him good for ill.
So goe, Sir Tomas, goe your way;
ffor whiles I bee on live I will
ffor Robin's coming pray!"
XV
Soe Madge, ye hoyden, kneelt & prayed
that Godde sholde send her Robin backe.
And tho' ye folke vast scoffing made,
and tho' ye worlde ben colde and blacke,
And tho', as moneths dragged away,
ye hoyden's harte ben like to crack
With griff, she still did praye.
XVI
Sicke of that divell's damnèd charmes,
Aback did Robin come at last,
And Madge, ye hoyden, sprad her arms
and gave a cry and held him fast;
And as she clong to him and cried,
her patient harte with joy did brast,
& Madge, ye hoyden, died.
poem by Eugene Field
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In Laudem Authoris.
Like to the weake estate of a poore friend,
To whom sweet fortune hath bene euer slow,
VVhich dayly doth that happy howre attend,
VVhen his poore state may his affection shew:
So fares my loue, not able as the rest,
To chaunt thy prayses in a lofty vayne,
Yet my poore Muse doth vow to doe her best,
And wanting wings, shee'le tread an humble strayne.
I thought at first her homely steps to rayse,
And for some blazing Epithites to looke,
But then I fear'd, that by such wondrous prayse,
Some men would grow suspicious of thy booke:
For hee that doth thy due deserts reherse,
Depriues that glory from thy worthy verse.
poem by Francis Beaumont
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Her Epitaph
Happy Grave, thou dost enshrine
That which makes thee a rich mine:
Remember yet, 'tis but a loane;
And wee must have it back, Her owne,
The very same; Marke mee, the same:
Thou canst not cheat us with a lame
Deformed Carcase; Shee was fayre,
Fresh as Morning, sweete as Ayre:
Purer than other flesh as farre
As other Soules than Bodies are:
And that thou mayst the better see
To finde her out: two stars there bee
Eclipsed now; uncloude but those
And they will poynt thee to the Rose
That dyde each cheeke, now pale and wan,
But will bee when shee wakes againe
Fresher than ever: And howere
Her long sleepe may alter Her
Her Soule will know her Body streight,
Twas made so fitt for't. Noe deceite
Can suite another to it: none
Cloath it so neatly as its owne.
poem by William Strode
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Molly Webster
Heard ye e'er of Molly Webster, Molly Webster ye Hadley witch?
Heavie her Curse hath layn vpon Hadley, feered on by Poore & Riche.
Sold is shee, bodie & Spirit to Sathan, & worketh hys Will;
For our God's hid Purpose, doubtless, is shee suffered to doe vs Il.
Shee hath caled ye Thunder from Heaven & fyre yt was lytt in Helle;
Burn'd ye homs & Barne of her neighbor, shee Laughed for it pleas'd her wel.
She hath cast a Spel on ye Cattel yt they sould not passe her Doore,
A great Load of Haye from ye Meddowe she turn'd wh a Finger o'er!
Ye bould Carter threat'd her with hys Whippe, "For surelie God is fayn
To holp mee before a witch," sayd he, & shee turn'd it vp agen.
By'r Word ye sleeping Infant hath binn Raysed from its Cradel Bedd,
Vntouch'd of mortall hands wee have seen it wafted in Ayer o'er head!
Shee hath noe feer of ye Salvage for they sarve ye same euil Lord;
Oft, in ye guyse of a Walleneag hee hath feasted att her Board.
A black Henn flewe down our chimnie, & scalded itself in ye Pott;
Come Morn, goodwife Webster is scalded; wheyr got shee ye Burne? God wot!
Ye Lawe of our God, yea of our Land allows not a Witch to live;
We send her to Boston, to Generall Court, yt they might a Judgment giue;
But they Deem'd ye Charge not Prooven, tho ye Truth was wh payns layd bare; -
(Pray God it was not for her bright black eyes & her long curling hayr!)
Shee hath cost ye Town full threescore Pounds & now shee is heer agayne,
To laye a Blite on ye Rie, shee sayth, & to staye ye needful Rayn;
Yet moyer, our neighbor Philip Smith, she hath layd on a paynful bedd,
Vext by an hideous Witchcraft, hee wishes, nay longs to bee Dead!
By tymes he hath rapturous Uision, & Cryeth inn feruant Prayr,
"Lord, staie Thy hand, for ys is moyer than Thy frayl Seruant mae bear!"
More oft with dyre Groanings and Tears, he wallows in myre of ye Ditch
Digged for hys soul by yt own daughter of Sathan, ye Hadley witch!
Ye healthful Potions ye Chirurgeon sends from ye gallipots Power out,
Ye bedd vpheaues, ye homs is shaken, & ye stooles are hvrl'd aboute.
Hee dy'd in ye Night, they say, prayse God, she may neuer vex him mower!
(Ye bodie bled, & ye black catt mewed, yt Morn when shee passt his Doore!)
Pray Christian peple who heere ys Tayl, whoever ye may bee,
Pray for ye Peece of Hadley, for sorely try'd are wee!
Pray yt our godly Ministers, wh Fast proclaymed & Prayer,
May from Sathan's the old Land lords' clutch thys fayre New England tear!
Yea thus hee kicks agaynst the pricks & hys Imps groe ouer Bold,
As he sees yt land passe from his Power wh hee hath ouned of ould!
God keep vs alle from Salvages, God keep vs alle from Worse;—
Ye Idyl Sport of wicked FRIENDS & Molly Webster's curse!
poem by Julia Taft Bayne (1893)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Watch Sent Home To Mrs. Eliz: King, Wrapt In Theis Verses
Goe and count her better houres;
They more happie are than ours.
The day that gives her any blisse
Make it as long againe as tis:
The houre shee smiles in lett it bee
By thy art increas'd to three:
But if shee frowne on thee or mee
Know night is made by her not thee:
Bee swift in such an houre, and soon
Make it night though it bee noone:
Obey her tymes, who is the free
Fayre sun that governes thee and mee
poem by William Strode
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On The Death Of Ladie Caesar
Though Death to good men be the greatest boone,
I dare not think this Lady dyde so soone.
She should have livde for others: Poor mens want
Should make her stande, though she herselfe should faynt.
What though her vertuous deeds did make her seeme
Of equall age with old Methusalem?
Shee should have livde the more, and ere she fell
Have stretcht her little Span unto an Ell.
May wee not thinke her in a sleep or sowne,
Or that shee only tries her bedde of grounde?
Besides the life of Fame, is shee all deade?
As deade as Vertue, which together fledde:
As dead as men without it: and as cold
As Charity, that long ago grewe old.
Those eyes of pearle are under marble sett,
And now the Grave is made the Cabinett.
Tenne or an hundred doe not loose by this,
But all mankinde doth an Example misse.
A little earth cast upp betweene her sight
And us eclypseth all the world with night.
What ere Disease, to flatter greedy Death,
Hath stopt the organ of such harmlesse breath,
May it bee knowne by a more hatefull name
Then now the Plague: and for to quell the same
May all Physitians have an honest will:
May Pothecaries learne the Doctors skill:
May wandring Mountebanks, and which is worse
May an old womans medicine have the force
To vanquish it, and make it often flie,
Till Destiny on's servant learne to die.
May death itselfe, and all its Armory
Bee overmatcht with one poore Recipe.
What need I curse it? for, ere Death will kill
Another such, so farre estrang'd from ill,
So fayre, so kinde, so wisely temperate,
Time will cutt off the very life of Fate.
To make a perfect Lady was espyde
No want in her of anything but Pride:
And as for wantonnesse, her modesty
Was still as coole as now her ashes bee.
Seldome hath any Daughter lesse than her
Favourde the stampe of Eve her grandmother.
Her soule was like her body; both so cleare
As that a brighter eye than mans must peere
To finde a Blott; nor can wee yet suspect
But only by her Death the least defect:
And were not that the wages due to Sinne
Wee might beleeve that spotlesse she had bin.
poem by William Strode
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Glasgerion
Glasgerion was a kings owne sonne,
And a harper he was goode;
He harped in the kings chambere,
Where cuppe and caudle stoode,
And soe did hee in the queens chambere,
Till ladies waxed 'glad,'
And then bespake the kinges daughter,
And these wordes thus shee sayd:
'Strike on, strike on, Glasgerion,
Of thy striking doe not blinne;
Theres never a stroke comes oer thy harpe,
But it glads my hart withinne.'
'Faire might he fall,' quoth hee,
'Who taught you nowe to speake!
I have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeere,
My minde I neere durst breake.'
'But come to my bower, my Glasgerion,
When all men are att rest:
As I am a ladie true of my promise,
Thou shalt bee a welcome guest.'
Home then came Glasgerion,
A glad man, lord! was hee:
'And, come thou hither, Jacke my boy,
Come hither unto mee.
'For the kinges daughter of Normandye
Hath granted mee my boone;
And att her chambere must I bee
Beffore the cocke have crowen.
'O master, master,' then quoth hee,
'Lay your head downe on this stone;
For I will waken you, master deere,
Afore it be time to gone.'
But up then rose that lither ladd,
And hose and shoone did on;
A coller he cast upon his necke,
Hee seemed a gentleman.
And when he came to the ladyes chamber,
He thrild upon a pinn:
The lady was true of her promise,
And rose and lett him inn.
He did not take the lady gaye
To boulster nor to bed:
'Nor thoughe hee had his wicked wille,
A single word he sed.'
He did not kisse that ladyes mouthe,
Nor when he came, nor yode:
And sore that ladye did mistrust,
He was of some churls bloud.
But home then came that lither ladd,
And did off his hose and shoone;
And cast the coller from off his necke:
He was but a churcles sonne.
'Awake, awake, my deere master,
The cock hath well-nigh crowen;
Awake, awake, my master deere,
I hold it time to be gone.
'For I have saddled your horse, master,
Well bridled I have your steede,
And I have served you a good breakfast,
For thereof ye have need.'
Up then rose good Glasgerion,
And did on hose and shoone,
And cast a coller about his necke:
For he was a kinge his sonne.
And when he came to the ladyes chambere,
He thrilled upon the pinne;
The lady was more than true of promise,
And rose and let him inn.
'O whether have you left with me
Your bracelet of your glove?
Or are you returned backe againe
To know more of my love?'
Glasgerion swore a full great othe,
By oake, and ashe, and thorne;
'Ladye, I was never in your chambere,
Sith the time that I was borne.'
'O then it was your lither footpage,
He hath beguiled mee:'
Then shee pulled forth a little penkniffe,
That hanged by her knee.
Sayes, 'There shall never noe churles blood
Within my bodye spring:
No churles blood shall eer defile
The daughter of the kinge.'
Home then went Glasgerion,
And woe, good lord! was hee:
Sayes, 'Come thou hither, Jacke my boy,
Come hither unto mee.
'If I had killed a man to-night,
Jacke, I would tell it thee:
But if I have not killed a man to-night,
Jacke, thou hast killed three.'
And he puld out his bright browne sword,
And dryed it on his sleeve,
And he smote off that lither ladds head,
Who did his ladye grieve.
He sett the swords poynt till his brest,
The pummil until a stone:
Throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd,
These three lives were all gone.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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