Chapter XVII: Book III: I (2)

Ye violets that first appeare,
By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the yeare,
As if the Spring were all your own;
What are you when the Rose is blown? 10

Ye curious chaunters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature's layes,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents: what's your praise,
When Philomell her voyce shall raise? 15

So when my mistris shal be seene
In sweetnesse of her looks and minde;
By virtue first, then choyce a queen;
Tell me, if she was not design'd
Th' eclypse and glory of her kind? 20

VIII.

THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER.

This excellent old song, the subject of which is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her successors, is given, with corrections, from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, compared with another printed among some miscellaneous "poems and songs" in a book intitled, _Le Prince d'amour_, or _The Prince of Love_, 1660, 8vo.

* * * * *

[This was one of the most popular of old songs, and Dr. King in
his Preface to the _Art of Cookery_ places it by the side of
_Chevy Chase_ as one of the ballads to be hung up over the carved
mantelpiece in the homes of old British hospitality. It is to be
found in broadside in nearly all the collections, and appears to
have been printed for the first time in the reign of James I. by T.
Symcocke. Pepys notices it in his _Diary_ under the date 16th June,
1668--"Come to Newbery, and there dined--and musick: a song of the
old Courtier of Queen Elizabeth's, and how he was changed upon the
coming in of the King, did please me mightily, and I did cause W.
Hewer to write it out."

The song was parodied and altered into many forms. About the
middle of the last century it was revived and sung by Mr. Vernon
in Shadwell's comedy, _The Squire of Alsatia_, with a new burden,
"moderation and alteration," and finally it has been again revived
in the present century, with still greater alterations, under the
title of _The Old English Gentleman_.

Mr. Chappell has the following note on the object of the
song:--"Southey remarks very justly on the complaints of the decay
of hospitality, that 'while rents were received in kind they
must have been chiefly consumed in kind; at least there could be
no accumulation of disposable wealth.' He supposes this mode of
payment to have fallen generally into disuse during the reign of
James I. Without doubt, many of the poor would feel the change."
_Popular Music of the Olden Time_, vol. ii. p. 778.]

* * * * *

An old song made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;
Like an old courtier of the queen's,
And the queen's old courtier.

With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages;
They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,
And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen, nor pages,
But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks.
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks:
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,
With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows,
And an old frize coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose,
And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose;
Like an old courtier, &c.

With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come,
To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,
With good chear enough to furnish every old room,
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb,
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,
That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds,
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,
And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds;
Like an old courtier, &c.

But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd,
Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind,
To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind:
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd;
Like a young courtier of the king's,
And the king's young courtier.

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,
Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,
And takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land,
And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,
Who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care,
Who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air,
And seven or eight different dressings of other womens hair;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood,
Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good,
With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,
And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays,
And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays,
With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days,
And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,
On a new journey to London straight we all must begone,
And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat,
With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat,
With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,
Who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold,
For which sundry of his ancestors old manors are sold;
And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,
Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold,
Among the young courtiers of the king,
Or the king's young courtiers.

[***]

IX.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S CAMPAIGNE.

When the Scottish covenanters rose up in arms, and advanced to the English borders in 1639, many of the courtiers complimented the king by raising forces at their own expence. Among these none were more distinguished than the gallant Sir John Suckling, who raised a troop of horse, so richly accoutred, that it cost him _£_12,000. The like expensive equipment of other parts of the army, made the king remark, that "the Scots would fight stoutly, if it were but for the Englishmen's fine cloaths." (Lloyd's _Memoirs_.) When they came to action, the rugged Scots proved more than a match for the fine shewy English: many of whom behaved remarkably ill, and among the rest this splendid troop of Sir John Suckling's.

This humorous pasquil has been generally supposed to have been written by Sir John, as a banter upon himself. Some of his contemporaries however attributed it to Sir John Mennis, a wit of those times, among whose poems it is printed in a small poetical miscellany, intitled, _Musarum deliciæ: or the Muses recreation, containing several pieces of poetique wit_, 2d edition.--By Sir J. M. (_Sir John Mennis_) and Ja. S. (_James Smith_.) Lond. 1656, 12mo.--(See Wood's _Athenæ_. ii. 397, 418.) In that copy is subjoined an additional stanza, which probably was written by this Sir John Mennis, viz.:--

"But now there is peace, he's return'd to increase
His money, which lately he spent-a,
But his lost honour must lye still in the dust;
At Barwick away it went-a."

* * * * *

[This song is a parody of the famous old song, _John Dory_,
commencing.--

"As it fell on a holiday
And upon a holytide-a
John Dory bought him an ambling nag
To Paris for to ride-a."

Suckling's satirical powers made him peculiarly odious to
the Parliamentarians, as they were turned against them, and
consequently Mennis's lampoon was a great favourite with the
Roundheads. In _Le Prince d'Amour_, 1660, there is a song _Upon
Sir John Suckling's 100 Horse_, and the following are two of the
seven stanzas of which it consists:--

"I tell thee, Jack, thou gav'st the king
So rare a present, that nothing
Could welcomer have been;
A hundred horse! beshrew my heart,
It was a brave heroic part,
The like will scarce be seen.

"For ev'ry horse shall have on's back
A man as valiant as Sir Jack,
Although not half so witty:
Yet I did hear the other day
Two tailors made seven run away
Good faith, the more's the pity."

The uniform adopted by Suckling for his troop consisted of a white
doublet, and scarlet coat and breeches, with a scarlet feather in
the bonnet. The men were vigorous, well mounted and armed, and
these famous 100 horsemen were considered to be the finest sight in
his majesty's army. Mr. W. C. Hazlitt points out that the earliest
news of them appears to be in a letter of Jan. 29, 1638-9, from the
Earl of Northumberland to Lord Conway, in which the writer speaks
of Suckling having then engaged himself to raise the troop "within
these three days." (_Calendar of State Papers_ (_Domestic_,)
1638-9, p. 378.) The army was badly commanded, and no greater
disgrace attached to Suckling's troop than to the rest.]

* * * * *

Sir John he got him an ambling nag,
To Scotland for to ride-a,
With a hundred horse more, all his own he swore,
To guard him on every side-a.

No Errant-knight ever went to fight 5
With halfe so gay a bravada,
Had you seen but his look, you'ld have sworn on a book,
Hee'ld have conquer'd a whole armada.

The ladies ran all to the windows to see
So gallant and warlike a sight-a, 10
And as he pass'd by, they said with a sigh,
Sir John, why will you go fight-a?

But he, like a cruel knight, spurr'd on;
His heart would not relent-a,
For, till he came there, what had he to fear? 15
Or why should he repent-a?

The king (God bless him!) had singular hopes
Of him and all his troop-a:
The borderers they, as they met him on the way,
For joy did hollow, and whoop-a. 20

None lik'd him so well, as his own colonell,
Who took him for John de Wert-a;[826]
But when there were shows of gunning and blows,
My gallant was nothing so pert-a.

For when the Scots army came within sight, 25
And all prepared to fight-a,
He ran to his tent, they ask'd what he meant,
He swore he must needs goe sh*te-a.

The colonell sent for him back agen,
To quarter him in the van-a, 30
But Sir John did swear, he would not come there,
To be kill'd the very first man-a.

To cure his fear, he was sent to the reare,
Some ten miles back, and more-a;
Where Sir John did play at trip and away, 35
And ne'er saw the enemy more-a.

FOOTNOTES:

[826] Ver. 22. _John de Wert_ was a German general of great reputation, and the terror of the French in the reign of Louis XIII. Hence his name became proverbial in France, where he was called _De Vert_. See Bayle's _Dict._

X.

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

This excellent sonnet, which possessed a high degree of fame among the old Cavaliers, was written by Colone, Richard Lovelace during his confinement in the gatehouse, Westminster: to which he was committed by the House of Commons, in April 1642, for presenting a petition from the county of Kent, requesting them to restore the king to his rights, and to settle the government. See Wood's _Athenæ_, vol. ii. p. 228, and Lysons' _Environs of London_, vol. i. p. 109; where may be seen at large the affecting story of this elegant writer, who after having been distinguished for every gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern of his own sex, and the darling of the ladies, died in the lowest wretchedness, obscurity, and want, in 1658.

This song is printed from a scarce volume of his poems intitled, _Lucasta_, 1649, 12mo. collated with a copy in the Editor's folio MS.

* * * * *

[As Percy mentions, the folio MS. collations have been added
from it (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 17), but it will
at once be seen that they are of little value. The music to this
most exquisite of prison songs was composed by the celebrated Dr.
John Wilson, and first printed (according to Dr. Rimbault) in his
_Cheerful Ayres or Ballads set for three Voices_, Oxford, 1660.

Lucasta (= Lux casta, Lucy Sacheverell), misled by a report
that Lovelace had died of his wounds received at Dunkirk while
commanding a regiment of his own forming in the service of the
French king, married another lover.

Although doubtless Lovelace died in great trouble, we may hope
that Wood's account of his extreme poverty is exaggerated, for his
daughter and sole heir married the son of Lord Chief Justice Coke,
and brought to her husband the estates of her father at Kingsdown
in Kent.]

* * * * *

When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates;
When I lye tangled in her haire, 5
And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the aire,
Know no such libertye.[827]

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,[828] 10
Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,[829]
When healths and draughts goe free,[830]
Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, 15
Know no such libertìe.[827]

When, linnet-like, confined I
With shriller note shall sing
The mercye, sweetness, majestye,[831]
And glories of my king;[832] 20
When I shall voyce aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Th' enlarged windes, that curle the flood,[833]
Know no such libertìe.[827]

Stone walls doe not a prison make, 25
Nor iron barres a cage,
Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take[834]
That for an hermitage:[835]
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soule am free, 30
Angels alone, that soare above,[836]
Enjoy such libertìe.[837]

FOOTNOTES:

[827] [Ver. 8, 16, 24. enjoyes such lybertye, MS.]

[828] V. 10. with woe-allaying theames, MS. Thames is here used for water in general.

[829] [Ver. 13. thirsty soules, MS.]

[830] [V. 14. when cupps and bowles goe free.]

[831] [V. 19. the mercy, goodnesse, maiestye.]

[832] [V. 20. glory.]

[833] [V. 23. curles the floods.]

[834] [V. 27. the spotlesse soule and inocent.]

[835] [V. 28. Calls this an.]

[836] [V. 31. sores.]

[837] [V. 32. enjoyes. The second and third stanzas are transposed in the MS.]

XI.

THE DOWNFALL OF CHARING-CROSS.

Charing-Cross, as it stood before the civil wars, was one of those beautiful Gothic obelisks erected to conjugal affection by Edward I., who built such a one wherever the herse of his beloved Eleanor rested in its way from Lincolnshire to Westminster. But neither its ornamental situation, the beauty of its structure, nor the noble design of its erection (which did honour to humanity), could preserve it from the merciless zeal of the times: For, in 1647, it was demolished by order of the House of Commons, as popish and superstitious. This occasioned the following not unhumorous sarcasm, which has been often printed among the popular sonnets of those times.

The plot referred to in ver. 17, was that entered into by Mr. Waller the poet, and others, with a view to reduce the city and tower to the service of the king; for which two of them, Nath. Tomkins and Rich. Chaloner, suffered death July 5, 1643. Vid. _Ath. Ox._ ii. 24.

Whitlocke says, "May 3, 1643, Cheapside cross and other crosses were voted down," &c.--But this Vote was not put in execution with regard to _Charing Cross_ till four years after, as appears from Lilly's _Observations on the Life, &c. of K. Charles_, viz. "Charing-Cross, we know, was pulled down, 1647, in June, July, and August. Part of the Stones were converted to pave before Whitehall. I have seen Knife-hafts made of some of the stones, which, being well-polished, looked like marble." Ed, 1715, p. 18, 12mo.

[In Laud's Diary it is written, "1643 Maii 2 Tuesday The cross in
Cheapside taken down."]

See an Account of the pulling down Cheapside Cross, in the Supplement to _Gent. Mag._ 1764.

* * * * *

[Charing Cross was the largest and most beautiful of the series of
Eleanor crosses, and the architects employed in the construction of
it were paid _£_450. The work was formerly attributed to Cavalini,
but that artist was not born until the year 1279, and was therefore
about eleven years old when the Queen died. Since the publication
of the very interesting rolls of payments made by the executors
of Queen Eleanor (_Manners and Household Expenses of England in
the 13th and 15th centuries._ Roxburghe Club, 1841), it has been
known that Charing Cross was commenced by Richard de Crundale and
completed, after his death, by Roger de Crundale.

The site of the old cross was made use of as a place of execution,
and several of the regicides were put to death there.

The Cheapside cross, which was taken down in 1643, was the third
which occupied the site, and it had only been erected in 1600. The
original cross was found to be in a bad condition in 1441, and a
new one was therefore commenced, which was not finished until 1486.
This was replaced in 1600 by the third cross.

Dr. Rimbault informs us that this ballad is printed with the music
for three voices by "Mr. F. Farmeloe" in "The Second Book of the
_Pleasant Musical Companion_," 1687.]

* * * * *

Undone, undone the lawyers are,
They wander about the towne,
Nor can find the way to Westminster,
Now Charing-cross is downe:
At the end of the Strand, they make a stand, 5
Swearing they are at a loss,
And chaffing say, that's not the way,
They must go by Charing-cross.

The parliament to vote it down
Conceived it very fitting, 10
For fear it should fall, and kill them all,
In the house, as they were sitting.
They were told god-wot, it had a plot,
Which made them so hard-hearted,
To give command, it should not stand, 15
But be taken down and carted.

Men talk of plots, this might have been worse
For any thing I know,
Than that Tomkins, and Chaloner,
Were hang'd for long agoe. 20
Our parliament did that prevent,
And wisely them defended,
For plots they will discover still,
Before they were intended.

But neither man, woman, nor child, 25
Will say, I'm confident,
They ever heard it speak one word
Against the parliament.
An informer swore, it letters bore,
Or else it had been freed; 30
I'll take, in troth, my Bible oath,
It could neither write, nor read.

The committee said, that verily
To popery it was bent;
For ought I know, it might be so, 35
For to church it never went.
What with excise, and such device,
The kingdom doth begin
To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross,
Without doors nor within. 40

Methinks the common-council shou'd
Of it have taken pity,
'Cause, good old cross, it always stood
So firmly to the city.
Since crosses you so much disdain, 45
Faith, if I were as you,
For fear the king should rule again,
I'd pull down Tiburn too.

XII.

LOYALTY CONFINED.

This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's _Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I._ Lond. 1668, fol. p. 96. He speaks of it as the composition of a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living with no other reward than the conscience of having suffered. The author's name he has not mentioned, but, if tradition may be credited, this song was written by Sir _Roger L'Estrange_.--Some mistakes in Lloyd's copy are corrected by two others, one in MS., the other in the _Westminster Drollery, or a choice Collection of Songs and Poems_, 1671, 12mo.

* * * * *

[The ascription of this song to L'Estrange is improbable, and we
must therefore seek elsewhere for an author.]

* * * * *

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas blow;
Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;
Your incivility doth show,
That innocence is tempest proof;
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; 5
Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,
A private closet is to me:
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty: 10
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wisht to be retir'd,
Into this private room was turn'd;
As if their wisdoms had conspir'd 15
The salamander should be burn'd;
Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,
I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynick loves his poverty;
The pelican her wilderness; 20
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be
Naked on frozen Caucasus:
Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see
Make torments easie to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm 25
I, as my mistress' favours, wear;
And for to keep my ancles warm,
I have some iron shackles there:
These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. 30

I'm in the cabinet lockt up,
Like some high-prized margarite,[838]
Or, like the great mogul or pope,
Am cloyster'd up from publick sight:
Retiredness is a piece of majesty, 35
And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee.

Here sin for want of food must starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve
To keep vice out, and keep me in: 40
Malice of late's grown charitable sure,
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.

So he that struck at Jason's life,[839]
Thinking t'have made his purpose sure,
By a malicious friendly knife 45
Did only wound him to a cure:
Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th' event.

When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem; 50
And to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him:
Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart,
When kings want ease subjects must bear a part.

What though I cannot see my king 55
Neither in person or in coin;
Yet contemplation is a thing
That renders what I have not, mine;
My king from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart? 60

Have you not seen the nightingale,
A prisoner like, coopt in a cage,
How doth she chaunt her wonted tale
In that her narrow hermitage?
Even then her charming melody doth prove, 65
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird, whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;
But though they do my corps confine,
Yet maugre hate, my sould is free: 70
And though immur'd yet can I chirp, and sing
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.

My soul is free, as ambient air,
Although my baser part's immew'd,
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair 75
T' accompany my solitude:
Although rebellion do my body binde,
My king alone can captivate my minde.

FOOTNOTES:

[838] [pearl.]

[839] See this remarkable story in _Cicero de Nat. Deorum_, lib. 3, c. 28. _Cic. de Offic._ lib. 1, c. 30; see also _Val. Max._ 1, 8.

XIII.

VERSES BY K. CHARLES I.

"This prince, like his father, did not confine himself to prose: Bishop Burnet has given us a pathetic elegy, said to be written by Charles in Carisbrook castle (in 1648). The poetry is most uncouth and unharmonious, but there are strong thoughts in it, some good sense, and a strain of majestic piety." Mr. Walpole's _Royal and Noble Authors_, vol. i.

It is in his _Memoirs of the Duke of Hamilton_, p. 379, that Burnet hath preserved this elegy, which he tells us he had from a gentleman, who waited on the king at the time when it was written, and copied it out from the original. It is there intitled, _Majesty in Misery: or An Imploration to the King of Kings_.

Hume hath remarked of these stanzas, "That the truth of the sentiment, rather than the elegance of expression, renders them very pathetic." See his _Hist._ 1763, 4to. vol. v. pp. 437, 442, which is no bad comment upon them.--These are almost the only verses known of Charles's composition. Indeed a little Poem _On a quiet Conscience_, printed in the _Poetical Calendar_, 1763, vol. viii. is attributed to _K. Charles I._; being reprinted from a thin 8vo. published by Nahum Tate, called _Miscellanea Sacra, or Poems on Divine and Moral Subjects_.

* * * * *

Great monarch of the world, from whose power springs
The potency and power of kings,
Record the royal woe my suffering sings;

And teach my tongue, that ever did confine
Its faculties in truth's seraphick line, 5
To track the treasons of thy foes and mine.

Nature and law, by thy divine decree,
(The only root of righteous royaltie)
With this dim diadem invested me:

With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe, 10
The holy unction, and the royal globe:
Yet am I levell'd with the life of Job.

The fiercest furies, that do daily tread
Upon my grief, my grey discrowned head,
Are those that owe my bounty for their bread. 15

They raise a war, and christen it THE CAUSE,
While sacrilegious hands have best applause,
Plunder and murder are the kingdom's laws;

Tyranny bears the title of taxation,
Revenge and robbery are reformation, 20
Oppression gains the name of sequestration.

My loyal subjects, who in this bad season
Attend me (by the law of God and reason),
They dare impeach, and punish for high treason.

Next at the clergy do their furies frown, 25
Pious episcopacy must go down,
They will destroy the crosier and the crown.

Churchmen are chain'd, and schismaticks are freed,
Mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed,
The crown is crucified with the creed. 30

The church of England doth all factions foster,
The pulpit is usurpt by each impostor,
_Extempore_ excludes the _Paternoster_.

The Presbyter, and Independent seed
Springs with broad blades. To make religion bleed
Herod and Pontius Pilate are agreed. 36

The corner stone's misplac'd by every pavier:
With such a bloody method and behaviour
Their ancestors did crucifie our Saviour.

My royal consort, from whose fruitful womb 40
So many princes legally have come,
Is forc'd in pilgrimage to seek a tomb.

Great Britain's heir is forced into France,
Whilst on his father's head his foes advance:
Poor child! he weeps out his inheritance. 45

With my own power my majesty they wound,
In the king's name the king himself's uncrown'd:
So doth the dust destroy the diamond.

With propositions daily they enchant
My people's ears, such as do reason daunt, 50
And the Almighty will not let me grant.

They promise to erect my royal stem,
To make me great, t' advance my diadem,
If I will first fall down, and worship them!

But for refusal they devour my thrones, 55
Distress my children, and destroy my bones;
I fear they'll force me to make bread of stones.

My life they prize at such a slender rate,
That in my absence they draw bills of hate,
To prove the king a traytor to the state. 60

Felons obtain more privilege than I,
They are allow'd to answer ere they die;
'Tis death for me to ask the reason, why.

But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo
Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to 65
Such, as thou know'st do not know what they do.

For since they from their lord are so disjointed,
As to contemn those edicts he appointed,
How can they prize the power of his anointed?

Augment my patience, nullifie my hate, 70
Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate,
Yet, though we perish, BLESS THIS CHURCH and STATE.

XIV.

THE SALE OF REBELLIOUS HOUSHOLD-STUFF.

This sarcastic exultation of triumphant loyalty, is printed from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in _A choice collection of_ 120 _loyal songs, &c._ 1684, 12mo.--To the tune of _Old Simon the king_.

* * * * *

[This triumph over the downfall of the Rump Parliament is one of
the best of the numerous songs that were set to the favourite tune
of _Old Simon the King_, the full burden of which is--

"Says old Sir Symon the King,
Says old Sir Symon the King,
With his threadbare clothes
And his malmsey nose
Sing hey ding, ding a ding, ding."]

* * * * *

Rebellion hath broken up house,
And hath left me old lumber to sell;
Come hither, and take your choice,
I'll promise to use you well:
Will you buy the old speaker's chair? 5
Which was warm and easie to sit in,
And oft hath been clean'd I declare,
When as it was fouler than fitting.
Says old Simon the king, &c.

Will you buy any bacon-flitches, 10
The fattest, that ever were spent?
They're the sides of the old committees,
Fed up in the long parliament.
Here's a pair of bellows, and tongs,
And for a small matter I'll sell ye 'um; 15
They are made of the presbyters lungs,
To blow up the coals of rebellion.
Says old Simon, &c.

I had thought to have given them once
To some black-smith for his forge; 20
But now I have considered on't,
They are consecrate to the church:
So I'll give them unto some quire,
They will make the big organs roar,
And the little pipes to squeeke higher, 25
Than ever they could before.
Says old Simon, &c.

Here's a couple of stools for sale,
One's square, and t'other is round;
Betwixt them both the tail 30
Of the RUMP fell down to the ground.
Will you buy the states council-table,
Which was made of the good wain Scot?
The frame was a tottering Babel
To uphold the Independent plot, 35
Says old Simon, &c.

Here's the beesom of Reformation,
Which should have made clean the floor,
But it swept the wealth out of the nation,
And left us dirt good store. 40
Will you buy the states spinning-wheel,
Which spun for the ropers trade?
But better it had stood still,
For now it has spun a fair thread.
Says old Simon, &c. 45

Here's a glyster-pipe well try'd,
Which was made of a butcher's stump,[840]
And has been safely apply'd,
To cure the colds of the rump.
Here's a lump of Pilgrims-Salve, 50
Which once was a justice of peace,
Who Noll and the Devil did serve;
But now it is come to this.
Says old Simon, &c.

Here's a roll of the states tobacco, 55
If any good fellow will take it;
No Virginia had e'er such a smack-o,
And I'll tell you how they did make it:
'Tis th' Engagement, and Covenant cookt
Up with the Abjuration oath; 60
And many of them, that have took't,
Complain it was foul in the mouth.
Says old Simon, &c.

Yet the ashes may happily serve
To cure the scab of the nation, 65
Whene'er 't has an itch to swerve
To Rebellion by innovation.
A Lanthorn here is to be bought,
The like was scarce ever gotten,
For many plots it has found out 70
Before they ever were thought on.
Says old Simon, &c.

Will you buy the RUMP'S great saddle,
With which it jocky'd the nation?
And here is the bitt, and the bridle, 75
And curb of Dissimulation:
And here's the trunk-hose of the RUMP,
And their fair dissembling cloak,
And a Presbyterian jump,
With an Independent smock. 80
Says old Simon, &c.

Will you buy a Conscience oft turn'd,
Which serv'd the high-court of justice,
And stretch'd until England it mourn'd:
But Hell will buy that if the worst is. 85
Here's Joan Cromwell's kitching-stuff tub,[841]
Wherein is the fat of the Rumpers,
With which old Noll's horns she did rub,
When he was got drunk with false bumpers.
Says old Simon, &c. 90

Here's the purse of the public faith;
Here's the model of the Sequestration,
When the old wives upon their good troth,
Lent thimbles to ruine the nation.[842]
Here's Dick Cromwell's Protectorship, 95
And here are Lambert's commissions,
And here is Hugh Peters his scrip
Cramm'd with the tumultuous Petitions
Says old Simon, &c.

And here are old Noll's brewing vessels,[843] 100
And here are his dray, and his slings;
Here are Hewson's awl, and his bristles;[843]
With diverse other odd things:
And what is the price doth belong
To all these matters before ye? 105
I'll sell them all for an old song,
And so I do end my story.
Says old Simon, &c.

FOOTNOTES:

[840] Alluding probably to Major-General Harrison a butcher's son, who assisted Cromwell in turning out the long parliament, April 20, 1653.

[841] Ver. 86. This was a cant name given to Cromwell's wife by the Royalists, though her name was Elizabeth. She was taxed with exchanging the kitchen-stuff for the candles used in the Protector's houshold, &c. See _Gent. Mag._ for March, 1788, p. 242.

[842] Ver. 94. See Grey's _Hudibras_, pt. i. cant. 2, ver. 570, &c.

[843] V. 100, 102. Cromwell had in his younger years followed the brewing trade at Huntingdon. Col. Hewson is said to have been originally a cobler.

XV.

THE BAFFLED KNIGHT, OR LADY'S POLICY.

Given (with some corrections) from a MS. copy, and collated with two printed ones in Roman character in the Pepys collection.

* * * * *

[There are several versions of this story, but the earliest known
to Mr. Chappell is the one printed by Ritson in his _Ancient Songs_
(vol. ii. ed. 1829, p. 54), beginning--

"Yonder comes a courteous knight,"

with the burden, _Then she sang Downe a downe, hey downe derry_.
It is from _Deuteromelia, or the second part of Musicks melodie
or melodious Musicke_, London, 1609. Others are in _Pills to
purge Melancholy_ (iii. 1707, or v. 1719), and in _A Complete
Collection of old and new English and Scotch Songs_, 8vo., 1735.
The copy in the Roxburghe collection is entitled _The Politick
Maid_, beginning "There was a knight was wine dronke." Ritson says,
"Bp. Percy found the subject worthy of his best improvements."]

* * * * *

There was a knight was drunk with wine,
A riding along the way, sir;
And there he met with a lady fine,
Among the cocks of hay, sir.

Shall you and I, O lady faire, 5
Among the grass lye down-a:
And I will have a special care
Of rumpling of your gowne-a.

Upon the grass there is a dewe,
Will spoil my damask gowne, sir: 10
My gowne, and kirtle they are newe,
And cost me many a crowne, sir.

I have a cloak of scarlet red,
Upon the ground I'll throwe it;
Then, lady faire, come lay thy head; 15
We'll play, and none shall knowe it.

O yonder stands my steed so free
Among the cocks of hay, sir;
And if the pinner[844] should chance to see,
He'll take my steed away, sir. 20

Upon my finger I have a ring,
Is made of finest gold-a;
And, lady, it thy steed shall bring
Out of the pinner's fold-a.

O go with me to my father's hall; 25
Fair chambers there are three, sir:
And you shall have the best of all,
And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.

He mounted himself on his steed so tall,
And her on her dapple gray, sir: 30
And there they rode to her father's hall,
Fast pricking along the way, sir.

To her father's hall they arrived strait;
'Twas moated round about-a;
She slipped herself within the gate, 35
And lockt the knight without-a.

Here is a silver penny to spend,
And take it for your pain, sir;
And two of my father's men I'll send
To wait on you back again, sir. 40

He from his scabbard drew his brand,
And wiped it upon his sleeve-a:
And cursed, he said, be every man,
That will a maid believe-a!

She drew a bodkin from her haire, 45
And whip'd it upon her gown-a;
And curs'd be every maiden faire,
That will with men lye down-a!

A herb there is, that lowly grows,
And some do call it rue, sir: 50
The smallest dunghill cock that crows,
Would make a capon of you, sir.

A flower there is, that shineth bright,
Some call it mary gold-a;
He that wold not when he might, 55
He shall not when he wold-a.

The knight was riding another day,
With cloak and hat and feather:
He met again with that lady gay,
Who was angling in the river. 60

Now, lady faire, I've met with you,
You shall no more escape me;
Remember, how not long agoe
You falsely did intrap me.

The lady blushed scarlet red, 65
And trembled at the stranger:
How shall I guard my maidenhead
From this approaching danger?

He from his saddle down did light,
In all his riche attyer; 70
And cryed, As I am a noble knight,
I do thy charms admyer.

He took the lady by the hand,
Who seemingly consented;
And would no more disputing stand: 75
She had a plot invented.

Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray,
Methinks I now discover
A riding upon his dapple gray,
My former constant lover. 80

On tip-toe peering stood the knight,
Fast by the rivers brink-a;
The lady pusht with all her might:
Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.

O'er head and ears he plunged in, 85
The bottom faire he sounded;
Then rising up, he cried amain,
Help, helpe, or else I'm drownded!

Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu!
You see what comes of fooling: 90
That is the fittest place for you;
Your courage wanted cooling.

Ere many days, in her fathers park,
Just at the close of eve-a,
Again she met with her angry sparke; 95
Which made this lady grieve-a.

False lady, here thou'rt in my powre,
And no one now can hear thee:
And thou shalt sorely rue the hour,
That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me. 100

I pray, sir knight, be not so warm
With a young silly maid-a:
I vow and swear I thought no harm,
'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.

A gentle jest, in soothe! he cry'd, 105
To tumble me in and leave me:
What if I had in the river dy'd?----
That fetch will not deceive me.

Once more I'll pardon thee this day,
Tho' injur'd out of measure; 110
But then prepare without delay
To yield thee to my pleasure.

Well then, if I must grant your suit,
Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir
Let me pull off both spur and boot, 115
Or else you cannot stir, sir.

He set him down upon the grass,
And begg'd her kind assistance:
Now, smiling thought this lovely lass,
I'll make you keep your distance. 120

Then pulling off his boots half-way;
Sir knight, now I'm your betters:
You shall not make of me your prey;
Sit there like a knave in fetters.

The knight when she had served soe, 125
He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled:
For he could neither stand nor goe,
But like a cripple tumbled.

Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten,
Yet do not move nor stir, sir: 130
I'll send you my father's serving men,
To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.

This merry jest you must excuse,
You are but a stingless nettle:
You'd never have stood for boots or shoes, 135
Had you been a man of mettle.

All night in grievous rage he lay,
Rolling upon the plain-a;
Next morning a shepherd past that way,
Who set him right again-a. 140

Then mounting upon his steed so tall,
By hill and dale he swore-a:
I'll ride at once to her father's hall;
She shall escape no more-a.

I'll take her father by the beard, 145
I'll challenge all her kindred;
Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;
My wrath shall no more be hindred,

He rode unto her father's house,
Which every side was moated: 150
The lady heard his furious vows,
And all his vengeance noted.

Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage,
Once more I will endeavour:
This water shall your fury 'swage, 155
Or else it shall burn for ever.

Then faining penitence and feare,
She did invite a parley:
Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare,
Henceforth I'll love you dearly. 160

My father he is now from home,
And I am all alone, sir:
Therefore a-cross the water come;
And I am all your own, sir.

False maid, thou canst no more deceive; 165
I scorn the treacherous bait-a:
If thou would'st have me thee believe,
Now open me the gate-a.

The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd,
My father he has the keys, sir. 170
But I have for my love prepar'd
A shorter way and easier.

Over the moate I've laid a plank
Full seventeen feet in measure:
Then step a-cross to the other bank, 175
And there we'll take our pleasure.

These words she had no sooner spoke,
But strait he came tripping over:
The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke;
And sous'd the unhappy lover. 180

[***]

FOOTNOTES:

[844] [pinder or impounder of cattle.]

XVI.

WHY SO PALE?

From Sir John Suckling's _Poems_. This sprightly knight was born in 1613, and cut off by a fever about the 29th year of his age. See above, Song IX. of this Book.

* * * * *

[This celebrated song occurs in the tragedy of _Aglaura_, where it
is sung by Orsames, a young lord, who says--"It is a little foolish
counsel I gave a friend of mine four or five years ago when he was
falling into a consumption."

Dr. Rimbault (_Musical Illustrations_, p. 29) writes, "The original
air is here given from a MS. volume of old songs with the music,
_temp._ Charles II. in the collection of the Editor. It was
originally in the Library at Staunton Harold, Leicestershire, the
seat of Earl Ferrers. This beautiful lyric was sung by Mrs. Cross
in the _Mock Astrologer_, to an air composed by Lewis Ramondon.
It was afterwards reset by Dr. Arne."

The date of the poet's birth given above is incorrect. Suckling was
baptized on the tenth of February, 1608-9, and his mother died in
1613. Reduced in fortune and an alien, he died of poison bought by
him of an apothecary at Paris. The date of his death is not known,
but it probably took place in 1641, and he certainly was dead
before the year 1642 had ended.]

* * * * *

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prethee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prethee, why so pale? 5

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prethee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing doe't?
Prethee why so mute? 10

Quit, quit for shame; this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.
The devil take her! 15

XVII.

OLD TOM OF BEDLAM.

MAD SONG THE FIRST.

It is worth attention, that the English have more songs and ballads on the subject of madness, than any of their neighbours. Whether there be any truth in the insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers; we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of French, Italian Songs, &c.

Out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a dozen _mad songs_ for these volumes. The three first are originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the three last is chiefly that of imitation. They were written at considerable intervals of time; but we have here grouped them together, that the reader may the better examine their comparative merits. He may consider them as so many trials of skill in a very peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals to shoot in the bow of Ulysses. The two first were probably written about the beginning of the last century; the third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within this present century.

This is given from the Editor's folio MS. compared with two or three old printed copies.--With regard to the author of this old rhapsody, in Walton's _Compleat Angler_, cap. 3, is a song in praise of angling, which the author says was made at his request "by Mr. _William Basse_, one that has made the choice songs of the _Hunter in his career_, and of _Tom of Bedlam_, and many others of note," p. 84. See Sir _John Hawkins's_ curious Edition, 8vo. of that excellent old book.

* * * * *

[The madness here referred to was sometimes real, but more often
shammed. These "mad rascals" were so numerous a class that they
obtained the distinctive names of Bedlam beggars, and Abraham
men. Dekker describes their tricks in his _Bellman of London_,
1616, where he says, "he calls himself by the name of _Poor Tom_,
and coming near any body, cries out, 'Poor Tom is a cold;'" the
very expression used by Edgar when he appears in the disguise of
a madman (_King Lear_). Mr. Chappell observes that there is great
uncertainty as to the authorship, for there are so many Tom of
Bedlam songs that it is impossible to determine from the passage in
the _Complete Angler_ to which of them Walton refers. It is also
doubtful to whom we are indebted for the tune. Mr. Chappell thinks
that probably it was by Henry Lawes's master, John Cooper, called
Cuperario after his visit to Italy. It has been attributed, without
authority, to Henry Purcell and Henry Lawes.]

* * * * *

Forth from my sad and darksome cell,
Or from the deepe abysse of hell,[845]
Mad Tom is come into the world againe
To see if he can cure his distempered braine.[846]

Feares and cares oppresse my soule;[847] 5
Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle!
Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd[848]
To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.

Through the world I wander night and day[849]
To seeke my straggling senses, 10
In an angrye moode I mett old Time,[850]
With his pentarchye of tenses:[851]

When me he spyed,[852]
Away he hyed,[853]
For time will stay for no man:[854] 15
In vaine with cryes
I rent the skyes,[855]
For pity is not common.[856]

Cold and comfortless I lye:
Helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye! 20
Harke! I heare Apollo's teame,
The carman 'gins to whistle;
Chast Diana bends her bowe,
The boare begins to bristle.

Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackles, 25
To knocke off my troublesome shackles;[857]
Bid Charles make ready his waine
To fetch me my senses againe.[858]

Last night I heard the dog-star bark;
Mars met Venus in the darke; 30
Limping Vulcan het[859] an iron barr,[860]
And furiouslye made at the god of war:[861]

Mars with his weapon laid about,[862]
But Vulcan's temples had the gout,
For his broad horns did so hang in his light,[863] 35
He could not see to aim his blowes aright:[864]

Mercurye the nimble post of heaven,
Stood still to see the quarrell;[865]
Gorrel-bellyed[866] Bacchus, gyant-like,
Bestryd a strong-beere barrell. 40

To mee he dranke,
I did him thanke,
But I could get no cyder;
He dranke whole butts
Till he burst his gutts, 45
But mine were ne'er the wyder.

Poore naked Tom is very drye:
A little drinke for charitye!

Harke, I hear Acteon's horne!
The huntsmen whoop and hallowe: 50
Ringwood, Royster, Bowman, Jowler,
All the chase do followe.

The man in the moone drinkes clarret,
Eates powder'd beef, turnip, and carret,
But a cup of old Malaga sack 55
Will fire the bushe at his backe.

FOOTNOTES:

[845] [Ver. 2. _or_ not in MS.]

[846] [V. 4. can ease.]

[847] [V. 5. ffeare & dispayre pursue.]

[848] [V. 7. _and_ not in MS.]

[849] [V. 9. through woods.]

[850] [V. 11. I found out time.]

[851] [five tenses.]

[852] [V. 13. he spyes.]

[853] [V. 14. he fflyes.]

[854] [V. 15. _for_ not in MS.]

[855] [Ver. 17. hee rends.]

[856] [V. 18. _for_ not in MS.]

[857] [V. 26. and knocke.]

[858] [V. 28. my five sences.]

[859] [heated.]

[860] [V. 31. heates.]

[861] [V. 32. runs att.]

[862] [V. 33. weapons.]

[863] [V. 35. hang soe.]

[864] [V. 36. that hee cold not see to aime arright.]

[865] [V. 38. stayd to see.]

[866] [very fat bellied.]

XVIII.

THE DISTRACTED PURITAN,

MAD SONG THE SECOND,

Was written about the beginning of the seventeenth century by the witty bishop Corbet, and is printed from the 3d edition of his Poems, 12mo. 1672, compared with a more ancient copy in the Editor's folio MS.

* * * * *

[This song was printed in _Le Prince d'Amour_, 1660, with three
other songs entitled _Tom of Bedlam_. It was also printed in the
_Rump Songs_, 1662, but not in the edition of 1660.

The copy in the folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. iii. p.
269) has several alterations. Stanza 5 was taken by Percy from the
MS., where it occurs as stanza 8.

Richard Corbet, successively Bishop of Oxford and Norwich, was born
at Ewell in Surrey in 1582. He died in 1635. He was a humorous man,
and many pleasant stories are told of him, but Aubrey describes his
appearance as "grave and venerable."

* * * * *

Am I mad, O noble Festus,
When zeal and godly knowledge
Have put me in hope
To deal with the pope,
As well as the best in the college? 5
Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets;
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crochets.

In the house of pure Emanuel[867] 10
I had my education,
Where my friends surmise
I dazel'd my eyes
With the sight of revelation.
Boldly I preach, &c.

They bound me like a bedlam, 15
They lash'd my four poor quarters;
Whilst this I endure,
Faith makes me sure
To be one of Foxes martyrs.
Boldly I preach, &c.

These injuries I suffer 20
Through antichrist's perswasion:
Take off this chain,
Neither Rome nor Spain
Can resist my strong invasion.
Boldly I preach, &c.

Of the beast's ten horns (God bless us!) 25
I have knock'd off three already;
If they let me alone
I'll leave him none:
But they say I am too heady.
Boldly I preach, &c.

When I sack'd the seven-hill'd city, 30
I met the great red dragon;
I kept him aloof
With the armour of proof,
Though here I have never a rag on.
Boldly I preach, &c.

With a fiery sword and target, 35
There fought I with this monster:
But the sons of pride
My zeal deride,
And all my deeds misconster.
Boldly I preach, &c.

I un-hors'd the Whore of Babel, 40
With the lance of Inspiration;
I made her slink,
And spill the drink
In her cup of abomination.
Boldly I preach, &c.

I have seen two in a vision 45
With a flying-book[868] between them.
I have been in despair
Five times in a year,
And been cur'd by reading Greenham.[869]
Boldly I preach, &c.

I observ'd in Perkin's tables[870] 50
The black line of damnation;
Those crooked veins
So stuck in my brains,
That I fear'd my reprobation.
Boldly I preach, &c.

In the holy tongue of Canaan 55
I plac'd my chiefest pleasure:
Till I prick'd my foot
With an Hebrew root,
That I bled beyond all measure.
Boldly I preach, &c.

I appear'd before the archbishop,[871] 60
And all the high commission;
I gave him no grace,
But told him to his face,
That he favour'd superstition.
Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets: 66
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.

FOOTNOTES:

[867] Emanuel college, Cambridge, was originally a seminary of Puritans.