Chapter XI: Book III: I

THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE.

The incidents in this, and the other ballad of _St. George and the Dragon_, are chiefly taken from the old story-book of the Seven Champions of Christendome; which, tho' now the play-thing of children, was once in high repute. Bp. Hall in his _Satires_, published in 1597, ranks

"St. George's sorell, and his cross of blood,"

among the most popular stories of his time: and an ingenious critic thinks that Spencer himself did not disdain to borrow hints from it;[422] tho' I much doubt whether this popular romance were written so early as the _Faery Queen_.

The author of this book of the _Seven Champions_ was one Richard Johnson, who lived in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, as we collect from his other publications: viz.--_The nine worthies of London_: 1592, 4to.--_The pleasant walks of Moor fields_: 1607, 4to.--_A crown garland of Goulden Roses, gathered, &c._ 1612, 8vo.--_The life and death of Rob. Cecill, E. of Salisbury_: 1612, 4to.--_The Hist. of Tom of Lincoln_, 4to. is also by R. J. who likewise reprinted _Don Flores of Greece_, 4to.

The _Seven Champions_, tho' written in a wild inflated style, contains some strong Gothic painting; which seems, for the most part, copied from the metrical romances of former ages. At least the story of _St. George and the fair Sabra_ is taken almost verbatim from the old poetical legend of _Syr Bevis of Hampton_.

This very antique poem was in great fame in Chaucer's time (see above, pag. 107.), and so continued till the introduction of printing, when it ran thro' several editions; two of which are in black letter, 4to. "imprinted by Wyllyam Copland," without date; containing great variations.

As a specimen of the poetic powers of this very old rhimist, and as a proof how closely the author of the _Seven Champions_ has followed him, take a description of the dragon slain by sir Bevis.

"--Whan the dragon, that foule is,
Had a syght of syr Bevis,
He cast up a loude cry,
As it had thondred in the sky;
He turned his bely towarde the son;
It was greater than any tonne:
His scales was bryghter then the glas,
And harder they were than any bras:
Betwene his shulder and his tayle,
Was forty fote withoute fayle.
He waltred out of his denne,
And Bevis pricked his stede then,
And to hym a spere he thraste
That all to shyvers he it braste:
The dragon then gan Bevis assayle,
And smote syr Bevis with his tayle;
Then downe went horse and man,
And two rybbes of Bevis brused than."

After a long fight, at length, as the dragon was preparing to fly, sir Bevis

"Hit him under the wynge,
As he was in his flyenge,
There he was tender without scale,
And Bevis thought to be his bale.
He smote after, as I you saye,
With his good sword Morglaye.
Up to the hiltes Morglay yode
Through harte, lyver, bone, and bloude:
To the ground fell the dragon,
Great joye syr Bevis begon.
Under the scales al on hight
He smote off his head forth right,
And put it on a spere: &c."

Sign. K. iv.

Sir Bevis's dragon is evidently the parent of that in the _Seven_ _Champions_, see chap, iii., viz. "The dragon no sooner had a sight of him (St. George) but he gave such a terrible peal, as though it had thundered in the elements.... Betwixt his shoulders and his tail were fifty feet in distance, his scales glistering as bright as silver, but far more hard than brass; his belly of the colour of gold, but bigger than a tun. Thus weltered he from his den, &c.... The champion ... gave the dragon such a thrust with his spear, that it shivered in a thousand pieces: whereat the furious dragon so fiercely smote him with his venomous tail, that down fell man and horse: in which fall two of St. George's ribs were so bruised, &c.--At length ... St. George smote the dragon under the wing where it was tender without scale, whereby his good sword Ascalon with an easie passage went to the very hilt through both the dragon's heart, liver, bone, and blood.--Then St. George--cut off the dragon's head and pitcht it upon the truncheon of a spear, &c."

The _History of the Seven Champions_, being written just before the decline of books of chivalry, was never, I believe, translated into any foreign language: But _Le Roman de Beuves of Hantonne_ was published at Paris in 1502, 4to. Let. Gothique.

The learned Selden tell us, that about the time of the Norman invasion was Bevis famous with the title of Earl of Southampton, whose residence was at Duncton in Wiltshire; but he observes, that the monkish enlargements of his story have made his very existence doubted. See _Notes on Poly-Olbion, Song_ iii.

This hath also been the case of _St. George_ himself; whose martial history is allowed to be apocryphal. But, to prove that there really existed an orthodox saint of this name (altho' little or nothing, it seems, is known of his genuine story) is the subject of _An Historical and Critical Inquiry into the Existence and Character of St. George, &c._ By the Rev. J. Milner, F.S.A. 1792, 8vo.

The equestrian figure worn by the Knights of the Garter, has been understood to be an emblem of the Christian warrior, in his spiritual armour, vanquishing the old serpent.

But on this subject the inquisitive reader may consult _A Dissertation_ _on the Original of the Equestrian Figure of the George and of the Garter, ensigns of the most noble order of that name_. Illustrated with copper-plates. By John Petingal, A.M., Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, London, 1753, 4to. This learned and curious work the author of the _Historical and Critical Inquiry_ would have done well to have seen.

It cannot be denied, but that the following ballad is for the most part modern: for which reason it would have been thrown to the end of the volume, had not its subject procured it a place here.

* * * * *

[In respect to the last paragraph, Ritson writes, "It may be safely
denied, however, that the least part of it is ancient."]

* * * * *

Listen, lords, in bower and hall,
I sing the wonderous birth
Of brave St. George, whose valorous arm
Rid monsters from the earth:

Distressed ladies to relieve 5
He travell'd many a day;
In honour of the christian faith,
Which shall endure for aye.

In Coventry sometime did dwell
A knight of worthy fame, 10
High steward of this noble realme;
Lord Albert was his name.

He had to wife a princely dame,
Whose beauty did excell.
This virtuous lady, being with child, 15
In sudden sadness fell:

For thirty nights no sooner sleep
Had clos'd her wakeful eyes,
But, lo! a foul and fearful dream
Her fancy would surprize: 20

She dreamt a dragon fierce and fell
Conceiv'd within her womb;
Whose mortal fangs her body rent
Ere he to life could come.

All woe-begone, and sad was she; 25
She nourisht constant woe:
Yet strove to hide it from her lord,
Lest he should sorrow know.

In vain she strove, her tender lord,
Who watch'd her slightest look, 30
Discover'd soon her secret pain,
And soon that pain partook.

And when to him the fearful cause
She weeping did impart,
With kindest speech he strove to heal 35
The anguish of her heart.

Be comforted, my lady dear,
Those pearly drops refrain;
Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I'll try to ease thy pain. 40

And for this foul and fearful dream,
That causeth all thy woe,
Trust me I'll travel far away
But I'll the meaning knowe.

Then giving many a fond embrace, 45
And shedding many a teare,
To the weïrd lady of the woods
He purpos'd to repaire.

To the weïrd lady of the woods,
Full long and many a day, 50
Thro' lonely shades, and thickets rough
He winds his weary way.

At length he reach'd a dreary dell
With dismal yews o'erhung;
Where cypress spred its mournful boughs, 55
And pois'nous nightshade sprung.

No chearful gleams here pierc'd the gloom,
He hears no chearful sound;
But shrill night-ravens' yelling scream,
And serpents hissing round. 60

The shriek of fiends, and damned ghosts
Ran howling thro' his ear:
A chilling horror froze his heart,
Tho' all unus'd to fear.

Three times he strives to win his way,
And pierce those sickly dews:
Three times to bear his trembling corse
His knocking knees refuse.

At length upon his beating breast
He signs the holy crosse; 70
And, rouzing up his wonted might,
He treads th' unhallow'd mosse.

Beneath a pendant craggy cliff,
All vaulted like a grave,
And opening in the solid rock, 75
He found the inchanted cave.

An iron gate clos'd up the mouth,
All hideous and forlorne;
And, fasten'd by a silver chain,
Near hung a brazed horne. 80

Then offering up a secret prayer,
Three times he blowes amaine:
Three times a deepe and hollow sound
Did answer him againe.

"Sir knight, thy lady beares a son, 85
Who, like a dragon bright,
Shall prove most dreadful to his foes,
And terrible in fight.

"His name advanc'd in future times
On banners shall be worn: 90
But lo! thy lady's life must passe
Before he can be born."

All sore opprest with fear and doubt
Long time lord Albert stood;
At length he winds his doubtful way 95
Back thro' the dreary wood.

Eager to clasp his lovely dame
Then fast he travels back:
But when he reach'd his castle gate,
His gate was hung with black. 100

In every court and hall he found
A sullen silence reigne;
Save where, amid the lonely towers,
He heard her maidens 'plaine;

And bitterly lament and weep, 105
With many a grievous grone:
Then sore his bleeding heart misgave,
His lady's life was gone.

With faultering step he enters in,
Yet half affraid to goe; 110
With trembling voice asks why they grieve,
Yet fears the cause to knowe.

"Three times the sun hath rose and set;"
They said, then stopt to weep:
"Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare 115
In death's eternal sleep.

"For, ah! in travel sore she fell,
So sore that she must dye;
Unless some shrewd and cunning leech
Could ease her presentlye. 120

"But when a cunning leech was fet,
Too soon declared he,
She, or her babe must lose its life;
Both saved could not be.

"Now take my life, thy lady said, 125
My little infant save:
And O commend me to my lord,
When I am laid in grave.

"O tell him how that precious babe
Cost him a tender wife: 130
And teach my son to lisp her name,
Who died to save his life.

"Then calling still upon thy name,
And praying still for thee;
Without repining or complaint, 135
Her gentle soul did flee."

What tongue can paint lord Albret's woe,
The bitter tears he shed,
The bitter pangs that wrung his heart,
To find his lady dead? 140

He beat his breast: he tore his hair;
And shedding many a tear,
At length he askt to see his son;
The son that cost so dear.

New sorrowe seiz'd the damsells all: 145
At length they faultering say;
"Alas! my lord, how shall we tell?
Thy son is stoln away.

"Fair as the sweetest flower of spring,
Such was his infant mien: 150
And on his little body stampt
Three wonderous marks were seen:

"A blood-red cross was on his arm;
A dragon on his breast:
A little garter all of gold 155
Was round his leg exprest.

"Three carefull nurses we provide
Our little lord to keep:
One gave him sucke, one gave him food,
And one did lull to sleep. 160

"But lo! all in the dead of night,
We heard a fearful sound:
Loud thunder clapt; the castle shook;
And lightning flasht around.

"Dead with affright at first we lay; 165
But rousing up anon,
We ran to see our little lord:
Our little lord was gone!

"But how or where we could not tell;
For lying on the ground, 170
In deep and magic slumbers laid,
The nurses there we found."

O grief on grief! lord Albret said:
No more his tongue cou'd say,
When falling in a deadly swoone, 175
Long time he lifeless lay.

At length restor'd to life and sense
He nourisht endless woe,
No future joy his heart could taste,
No future comfort know. 180

So withers on the mountain top
A fair and stately oake,
Whose vigorous arms are torne away,
By some rude thunder-stroke.

At length his castle irksome grew, 185
He loathes his wonted home;
His native country he forsakes
In foreign lands to roame.

There up and downe he wandered far,
Clad in a palmer's gown; 190
Till his brown locks grew white as wool,
His beard as thistle down.

At length, all wearied, down in death
He laid his reverend head.
Meantime amid the lonely wilds 195
His little son was bred.

There the weïrd lady of the woods
Had borne him far away,
And train'd him up in feates of armes,
And every martial play. 200

[***]

FOOTNOTES:

[422] Mr. Warton. Vid. Observations on the _Fairy Queen_, 2 vol. 1762, 12mo. _passim._

II.

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

The following ballad is given (with some corrections) from two ancient black-letter copies in the _Pepys Collection_: one of which is in 12mo., the other in folio.

* * * * *

[The story of _St. George and the Dragon_ is found in many forms in
the northern languages.]

* * * * *

Of Hector's deeds did Homer sing;
And of the sack of stately Troy,
What griefs fair Helena did bring,
Which was sir Paris' only joy:
And by my pen I will recite 5
St. George's deeds, and English knight.

Against the Sarazens so rude
Fought he full long and many a day,
Where many gyants he subdu'd,
In honour of the christian way: 10
And after many adventures past
To Egypt land he came at last.

Now, as the story plain doth tell,
Within that countrey there did rest
A dreadful dragon fierce and fell, 15
Whereby they were full sore opprest;
Who by his poisonous breath each day,
Did many of the city slay.

The grief whereof did grow so great
Throughout the limits of the land, 20
That they their wise-men did intreat
To shew their cunning out of hand;
What way they might this fiend destroy,
That did the countrey thus annoy.

The wise-men all before the king 25
This answer fram'd incontinent;
The dragon none to death might bring
By any means they could invent:
His skin more hard than brass was found,
That sword nor spear could pierce nor wound. 30

When this the people understood,
They cryed out most piteouslye,
The dragon's breath infects their blood,
That every day in heaps they dye:
Among them such a plague it bred, 35
The living scarce could bury the dead.

No means there were, as they could hear,
For to appease the dragon's rage,
But to present some virgin clear,
Whose blood his fury might asswage; 40
Each day he would a maiden eat,
For to allay his hunger great.

This thing by art the wise-men found,
Which truly must observed be;
Wherefore throughout the city round 45
A virgin pure of good degree

Was by the king's commission still
Taken up to serve the dragon's will.

Thus did the dragon every day
Untimely crop some virgin flowr, 50
Till all the maids were worn away,
And none were left him to devour:
Saving the king's fair daughter bright,
Her father's only heart's delight.

Then came the officers to the king 55
That heavy message to declare,
Which did his heart with sorrow sting;
She is, quoth he, my kingdom's heir:
O let us all be poisoned here,
Ere she should die, that is my dear. 60

Then rose the people presently,
And to the king in rage they went;
They said his daughter dear should dye,
The dragon's fury to prevent:
Our daughters all are dead, quoth they, 65
And have been made the dragon's prey:

And by their blood we rescued were,
And thou hast sav'd thy life thereby;
And now in sooth it is but faire,
For us thy daughter so should die. 70
O save my daughter, said the king;
And let ME feel the dragon's sting.

Then fell fair Sabra on her knee,
And to her father dear did say,
O father, strive not thus for me, 75
But let me be the dragon's prey;
It may be, for my sake alone
This plague upon the land was thrown.

Tis better I should dye, she said,
Than all your subjects perish quite; 80
Perhaps the dragon here was laid,
For my offence to work his spite:
And after he hath suckt my gore,
Your land shall feel the grief no more.

What hast thou done, my daughter dear, 85
For to deserve this heavy scourge?
It is my fault, as may appear,
Which makes the gods our state to purge;
Then ought I die, to stint the strife,
And to preserve thy happy life. 90

Like mad-men, all the people cried,
Thy death to us can do no good;
Our safety only doth abide
In making her the dragon's food.
Lo! here I am, I come, quoth she, 95
Therefore do what you will with me.

Nay stay, dear daughter, quoth the queen,
And as thou art a virgin bright,
That hast for vertue famous been,
So let me cloath thee all in white; 100
And crown thy head with flowers sweet,
An ornament for virgins meet.

And when she was attired so,
According to her mother's mind,
Unto the stake then did she go; 105
To which her tender limbs they bind:
And being bound to stake a thrall
She bade farewell unto them all.

Farewell, my father dear, quoth she,
And my sweet mother meek and mild; 110
Take you no thought nor weep for me,
For you may have another child:

Since for my country's good I dye,
Death I receive most willinglye.

The king and queen and all their train 115
With weeping eyes went then their way,
And let their daughter there remain,
To be the hungry dragon's prey:
But as she did there weeping lye,
Behold St. George came riding by. 120

And seeing there a lady bright
So rudely tyed unto a stake,
As well became a valiant knight,
He straight to her his way did take:
Tell me, sweet maiden, then quoth he, 125
What caitif thus abuseth thee?

And, lo! by Christ his cross I vow,
Which here is figured on my breast,
I will revenge it on his brow,
And break my lance upon his chest: 130
And speaking thus whereas he stood,
The dragon issued from the wood.

The lady that did first espy
The dreadful dragon coming so,
Unto St. George aloud did cry, 135
And willed him away to go;
Here comes that cursed fiend, quoth she;
That soon will make an end of me.

St. George then looking round about,
The fiery dragon soon espy'd, 140
And like a knight of courage stout,
Against him did most fiercely ride;
And with such blows he did him greet,
He fell beneath his horse's feet.

For with his launce that was so strong, 145
As he came gaping in his face,
In at his mouth he thrust along;
For he could pierce no other place:
And thus within the lady's view
This mighty dragon straight he slew. 150

The savour of his poisoned breath
Could do this holy knight no harm.
Thus he the lady sav'd from death,
And home he led her by the arm;
Which when king Ptolemy did see, 155
There was great mirth and melody.

When as that valiant champion there
Had slain the dragon in the field,
To court he brought the lady fair,
Which to their hearts much joy did yield. 160
He in the court of Egypt staid
Till he most falsely was betray'd.

That lady dearly lov'd the knight,
He counted her his only joy; 165
But when their love was brought to light
It turn'd unto their great annoy:
Th' Morocco king was in the court,
Who to the orchard did resort,

Dayly to take the pleasant air, 170
For pleasure sake he us'd to walk,
Under a wall he oft did hear
St. George with lady Sabra talk:
Their love he shew'd unto the king,
Which to St. George great woe did bring. 175

Those kings together did devise
To make the christian knight away,
With letters him in curteous wise
They straightway sent to Persia:

But wrote to the sophy him to kill, 180
And treacherously his blood to spill.

Thus they for good did him reward
With evil, and most subtilly
By much vile meanes they had regard
To work his death most cruelly; 185
Who, as through Persia land he rode,
With zeal destroy'd each idol god.

For which offence he straight was thrown
Into a dungeon dark and deep;
Where, when he thought his wrongs upon, 190
He bitterly did wail and weep:
Yet like a knight of courage stout,
At length his way he digged out.

Three grooms of the king of Persia
By night this valiant champion slew, 195
Though he had fasted many a day;
And then away from thence he flew
On the best steed the sophy had;
Which when he knew he was full mad.

Towards Christendom he made his flight, 200
But met a gyant by the way,
With whom in combat he did fight
Most valiantly a summer's day:
Who yet, for all his bats of steel,
Was forc'd the sting of death to feel. 205

Back o'er the seas with many bands
Of warlike souldiers soon he past,
Vowing upon those heathen lands
To work revenge; which at the last,
Ere thrice three years were gone and spent, 210
He wrought unto his heart's content.

Save onely Egypt land he spar'd
For Sabra bright her only sake,
And, ere for her he had regard,
He meant a tryal kind to make: 215
Mean while the king o'ercome in field
Unto saint George did quickly yield.

Then straight Morocco's king he slew,
And took fair Sabra to his wife,
But meant to try if she were true 220
Ere with her he would lead his life:
And, tho' he had her in his train,
She did a virgin pure remain.

Toward England then that lovely dame
The brave St. George conducted strait, 225
An eunuch also with them came,
Who did upon the lady wait;
These three from Egypt went alone.
Now mark St. George's valour shown.

When as they in a forest were, 230
The lady did desire to rest;
Mean while St. George to kill a deer,
For their repast did think it best:
Leaving her with the eunuch there,
Whilst he did go to kill the deer. 235

But lo! all in his absence came
Two hungry lyons fierce and fell,
And tore the eunuch on the same
In pieces small, the truth to tell;
Down by the lady then they laid, 240
Whereby they shew'd, she was a maid.

But when he came from hunting back,
And did behold this heavy chance,
Then for his lovely virgin's sake
His courage strait he did advance, 245

And came into the lions sight,
Who ran at him with all their might.

Their rage did him no whit dismay,
Who, like a stout and valiant knight,
Did both the hungry lyons slay 250
Within the lady Sabra's sight:
Who all this while sad and demure,
There stood most like a virgin pure.

Now when St. George did surely know
This lady was a virgin true, 255
His heart was glad, that erst was woe,
And all his love did soon renew:
He set her on a palfrey steed,
And towards England came with speed.

Where being in short space arriv'd 260
Unto his native dwelling-place;
Therein with his dear love he liv'd,
And fortune did his nuptials grace:
They many years of joy did see,
And led their lives at Coventry. 265

III.

LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY.

This excellent song is ancient: but we could only give it from a modern copy.

* * * * *

[Earlier editions of this spirited song are printed in Evans's _Old
Ballads_, iii. 282 (1810), and Rimbault's _Little Book of Songs
and Ballads_, p. 137. It is quoted in Brome's _Sparagus Garden_,
acted in 1635, and Shirley's _Constant Maid_ was republished in
1661, under the title of _Love will find out the Way_, by T. B.

Dr. Rimbault has the following note in his _Musical Illustrations_,
"The old black-letter copy of this ballad is called '_Truth's
Integrity: or, a curious Northerne Ditty_, called _Love will
finde out the Way_. To a pleasant new Tune Printed at London for
F. Coules, dwelling in the Old Bailey.' There is a second part
consisting of six stanzas, which Percy has not reprinted. The tune
is here given (translated from the _Tablature_) from _Musicks
Recreation on the Lyra Viol_, published by Playford in 1652. It is
also preserved in Forbes's _Cantus_, 1662; in _Musick's Delight on
the Cithren_, 1666; and in D'Urfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_,
1719. The _Pepysian Collection_ contains several ballads to this
tune."

Mr. Chappell writes, "The air is still current, for in the summer
of 1855, Mr. Jennings, Organist of All Saints' Church, Maidstone,
noted it down from the wandering hop-pickers singing a song to it
on their entrance into that town." _Popular Music_, vol. i. p. 304.]

* * * * *

Over the mountains,
And over the waves;
Under the fountains,
And under the graves;
Under the floods that are deepest, 5
Which Neptune obey;
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place
For the glow-worm to lye; 10
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture,
Lest herself fast she lay;
If love come, he will enter, 15
And soon find out his way.

You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight; 20

But if she, whom love doth honour,
Be conceal'd from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him, 25
By having him confin'd;
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that you may, 30
Blind love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle 35
The phenix of the east;
The lioness, ye may move her
To give o'er her prey;
But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
He will find out his way.

[***]

IV.

LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET,

A SCOTTISH BALLAD,

Seems to be composed (not without improvements) out of two ancient English ones, printed in the former part of this volume. See book i. ballad xv. and book ii. ballad iv.--If this had been the original, the authors of those two ballads would hardly have adopted two such different stories: besides, this contains enlargements not to be found in either of the others. It is given with some corrections, from a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland.

* * * * *

[Jamieson prints a version of this ballad which was taken down from
the recitation of Mrs. W. Arrot of Aberbrothick, and is entitled
_Sweet Willie and Fair Annie_. He contends that it is "pure and
entire," and expresses his opinion that the text of Percy's copy
had been "adjusted" previous to its leaving Scotland.]

* * * * *

Lord Thomas and fair Annet
Sate a' day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in jest, 5
Fair Annet took it ill:
A'! I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friends will.

Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
A wife wull neir wed yee. 10
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee:

O rede, O rede, mither, he says,
A gude rede gie to mee:
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride, 15
And let faire Annet bee?

The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,
Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty fair Annet has,
O it wull soon be gane! 20

And he has till his brother gane:
Now, brother, rede ye mee;
A' sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And let fair Annet bee?

The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,
The nut-browne bride has kye;
I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,
And cast fair Annet bye.

Her oxen may dye i' the house, Billìe,
And her kye into the byre; 30
And I sall hae nothing to my sell,
Bot a fat fadge[423] by the fyre.

And he has till his sister gane:
Now, sister, rede ye mee;
O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride, 35
And set fair Annet free?

Ise rede ye tak fair Annet, Thomas,
And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh and say, Alace!
What is this we brought hame? 40

No, I will tak my mithers counsel,
And marrie me owt o' hand;
And I will tak the nut-browne bride;
Fair Annet may leive the land.

Up then rose fair Annets father 45
Twa hours or it wer day,
And he is gane into the bower,
Wherein fair Annet lay.

Rise up, rise up, fair Annet, he says,
Put on your silken sheene; 50
Let us gae to St. Maries kirke,
And see that rich weddeen.

My maides, gae to my dressing roome,
And dress to me my hair;
Whair-eir yee laid a plait before,
See yee lay ten times mair.

My maids, gae to my dressing room,
And dress to me my smock;
The one half is o' the holland fine,
The other o' needle-work. 60

The horse fair Annet rade upon,
He amblit like the wind,
Wi' siller he was shod before,
Wi' burning gowd behind.

Four and twanty siller bells 65
Wer a' tyed till his mane,
And yae tift[424] o' the norland wind,
They tinkled ane by ane.

Four and twanty gay gude knichts
Rade by the fair Annets side, 70
And four and twanty fair ladies,
As gin she had bin a bride.

And whan she cam to Maries kirk,
She sat on Maries stean:
The cleading that fair Annet had on 75
It skinkled in their een.

And whan she cam into the kirk,
She shimmer'd like the sun;
The belt that was about her waist,
Was a' wi' pearles bedone. 80

She sat her by the nut-browne bride,
And her een they wer sae clear,
Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,
Whan fair Annet she drew near.

He had a rose into his hand, 95
And he gave it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-browne bride,
Laid it on fair Annets knee

Up than spak the nut-browne bride,
She spak wi' meikle spite; 90
And whair gat ye that rose-water,
That does mak yee sae white?

O I did get the rose-water,
Whair ye wull neir get nane,
For I did get that very rose-water 95
Into my mithers wame.

The bride she drew a long bodkin,
Frae out her gay head-gear,
And strake fair Annet unto the heart,
That word she nevir spak mair. 100

Lord Thomas he saw fair Annet wex pale,
And marvelit what mote bee:
But whan he saw her dear hearts blude,
A' wood-wroth[425] wexed hee.

He drew his dagger, that was sae sharp, 105
That was sae sharp and meet,
And drave into the nut-browne bride,
That fell deid at his feit.

Now stay for me, dear Annet, he sed,
Now stay, my dear, he cry'd; 110
Then strake the dagger untill his heart,
And fell deid by her side.

Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa',
Fair Annet within the quiere;
And o' the tane thair grew a birk, 115
The other a bonny briere.

And ay they grew, and ay they threw,
As they wad faine be neare;
And by this ye may ken right weil,
They ware twa luvers deare. 120

FOOTNOTES:

[423] [bundle of sticks.]

[424] [gust of wind.]

[425] [furiously enraged.]

V.

UNFADING BEAUTY.

This little beautiful sonnet is reprinted from a small volume of "_Poems_ by _Thomas Carew_, Esq. one of the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty (Charles I.) Lond. 1640." This elegant, and almost-forgotten writer, whose poems have been deservedly revived, died in the prime of his age, in 1639.

In the original follows a third stanza; which, not being of general application, nor of equal merit, I have ventured to omit.

* * * * *

[Dr. Rimbault informs us that the original music was composed by
Henry Lawes, and is included in his _Ayres and Dialogues for one,
two and three Voyces_, 1653.]

* * * * *

Hee, that loves a rosie cheeke,
Or a corall lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seeke
Fuell to maintaine his fires,
As old time makes these decay, 5
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and stedfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calme desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd
Kindle never-dying fires: 10
Where these are not I despise
Lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes.
* * * * *

VI.

GEORGE BARNWELL.

The subject of this ballad is sufficiently popular from the modern play which is founded upon it. This was written by _George Lillo_, a jeweller of London, and first acted about 1730.--As for the ballad it was printed at least as early as the middle of the last century.

It is here given from three old printed copies, which exhibit a strange intermixture of Roman and black letter. It is also collated with another copy in the _Ashmole Collection_ at Oxford, which is thus intitled, "An excellent ballad of _George Barnwell_, an apprentice of London, who ... thrice robbed his master and murdered his uncle in Ludlow." The tune is _The Merchant_.

This tragical narrative seems to relate a real fact; but when it happened I have not been able to discover.

* * * * *

[Ritson writes as follows concerning certain improvements made
by Percy in the following ballad (_Ancient Songs_, 1829, vol.
ii. p. 165, note):--"Throughout this 'second part' (except in a
single instance) the metre of the first line of each stanza is in
the old editions lengthened by a couple of syllables, which are,
occasionally at least, a manifest interpolation. The person also is
for the most part changed from the first to the third, with evident
impropriety. Dr. Percy has very ingeniously restored the measure by
ejecting the superfluous syllables, and given consistency to the
whole by the restoration of the proper person; and as it is now
highly improbable that any further ancient copy will be found, and
those which exist are manifestly corrupt, it seemed justifiable to
adopt the judicious emendations of this ingenious editor."

Dr. Rimbault observes, "This curious tune (_The Merchant_) which
has been quite overlooked by antiquaries, is found, together with
the original ballad, _The Merchant and the Fiddler's Wife_, in
D'Urfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_, vol. v. p. 77, edit. 1719."

The former great popularity of the story of the wicked young
prentice is shown by James Smith's parody in the _Rejected
Addresses_ and Thackeray's caricature romance--_George de
Barnwell_.]

* * * * *

THE FIRST PART.

All youths of fair Englànd
That dwell both far and near,
Regard my story that I tell,
And to my song give ear.

A London lad I was, 5
A merchant's prentice bound;
My name George Barnwell; that did spend
My master many a pound.

Take heed of harlots then,
And their enticing trains; 10
For by that means I have been brought
To hang alive in chains.

As I, upon a day,
Was walking through the street
About my master's business, 15
A wanton I did meet.

A gallant dainty dame,
And sumptuous in attire;
With smiling look she greeted me,
And did my name require. 20

Which when I had declar'd,
She gave me then a kiss,
And said, if I would come to her,
I should have more than this.

Fair mistress, then quoth I, 25
If I the place may know,
This evening I will be with you,
For I abroad must go

To gather monies in,
That are my master's due: 30
And ere that I do home return,
I'll come and visit you.

Good Barnwell, then quoth she,
Do thou to Shoreditch come,
And ask for Mrs. Millwood's house, 35
Next door unto the Gun.

And trust me on my truth,
If thou keep touch with me,
My dearest friend, as my own heart
Thou shall right welcome be. 40

Thus parted we in peace,
And home I passed right;
Then went abroad, and gathered in,
By six o'clock at night,

An hundred pound and one: 45
With bag under my arm
I went to Mrs. Millwood's house,
And thought on little harm;

And knocking at the door,
Straightway herself came down; 50
Rustling in most brave attire,
With hood and silken gown.

Who, through her beauty bright,
So gloriously did shine,
That she amaz'd my dazzling eyes, 55
She seemed so divine.

She took me by the hand,
And with a modest grace,
Welcome, sweet Barnwell, then quoth she,
Unto this homely place. 60

And since I have thee found
As good as thy word to be:
A homely supper, ere we part,
Thou shalt take here with me.

O pardon me, quoth I, 65
Fair mistress, I you pray;
For why, out of my master's house,
So long I dare not stay.

Alas, good Sir, she said,
Are you so strictly ty'd, 70
You may not with your dearest friend
One hour or two abide?

Faith, then the case is hard:
If it be so, quoth she,
I would I were a prentice bound, 75
To live along with thee:

Therefore, my dearest George,
List well what I shall say,
And do not blame a woman much,
Her fancy to bewray. 80

Let not affection's force
Be counted lewd desire;
Nor think it not immodesty,
I should thy love require.

With that she turn'd aside, 85
And with a blushing red,
A mournful motion she bewray'd
By hanging down her head.

A handkerchief she had,
All wrought with silk and gold: 90
Which she to stay her trickling tears
Before her eyes did hold.

This thing unto my sight
Was wondrous rare and strange;
And in my soul and inward thought 95
It wrought a sudden change:

That I so hardy grew,
To take her by the hand:
Saying, Sweet mistress, why do you
So dull and pensive stand? 100

Call me no mistress now,
But Sarah, thy true friend,
Thy servant, Millwood, honouring thee,
Until her life hath end.

If thou wouldst here alledge, 105
Thou art in years a boy;
So was Adonis, yet was he
Fair Venus' only joy.

Thus I, who ne'er before
Of woman found such grace, 110
But seeing now so fair a dame
Give me a kind embrace,

I supt with her that night,
With joys that did abound;
And for the same paid presently, 115
In money twice three pound.

An hundred kisses then,
For my farewel she gave;
Crying, Sweet Barnwell, when shall I
Again thy company have? 120

O stay not hence too long,
Sweet George, have me in mind.
Her words bewicht my childishness,
She uttered them so kind:

So that I made a vow, 125
Next Sunday without fail,
With my sweet Sarah once again
To tell some pleasant tale.

When she heard me say so,
The tears fell from her eye; 130
O George, quoth she, if thou dost fail,
Thy Sarah sure will dye.

Though long, yet loe! at last,
The appointed day was come,
That I must with my Sarah meet; 135
Having a mighty sum

Of money in my hand,[426]
Unto her house went I,
Whereas my love upon her bed
In saddest sort did lye. 140

What ails my heart's delight,
My Sarah dear? quoth I;
Let not my love lament and grieve,
Nor sighing pine, and die.

But tell me, dearest friend, 145
What may thy woes amend,
And thou shalt lack no means of help,
Though forty pound I spend.

With that she turn'd her head,
And sickly thus did say, 150
Oh me, sweet George, my grief is great,
Ten pound I have to pay

Unto a cruel wretch;
And God he knows, quoth she,
I have it not. Tush, rise, I said, 155
And take it here of me.

Ten pounds, nor ten times ten,
Shall make my love decay.
Then from my bag into her lap,
I cast ten pound straightway. 160

All blithe and pleasant then,
To banqueting we go;
She proffered me to lye with her,
And said it should be so.

And after that same time, 165
I gave her store of coyn,
Yea, sometimes fifty pound at once;
All which I did purloyn.

And thus I did pass on;
Until my master then 170
Did call to have his reckoning in
Cast up among his men.

The which when as I heard,
I knew not what to say:
For well I knew that I was out 175
Two hundred pound that day.

Then from my master straight
I ran in secret sort;
And unto Sarah Millwood there
My case I did report. 180

"But how she us'd this youth,
In this his care and woe,
And all a strumpet's wiley ways,
The SECOND PART may showe."

* * * * *

THE SECOND PART.

Young Barnwell comes to thee,
Sweet Sarah, my delight;
I am undone unless thou stand
My faithful friend this night.

Our master to accompts, 5
Hath just occasion found;
And I am caught behind the hand,
Above two hundred pound:

And now his wrath to 'scape,
My love, I fly to thee, 10
Hoping some time I may remaine
In safety here with thee.

With that she knit her brows,
And looking all aquoy,[427]
Quoth she, What should I have to do 15
With any prentice boy?

And seeing you have purloyn'd
Your master's goods away,
The case is bad, and therefore here
You shall no longer stay. 20

Why, dear, thou knowst, I said,
How all which I could get,
I gave it, and did spend it all
Upon thee every whit.

Quoth she, Thou art a knave, 25
To charge me in this sort,
Being a woman of credit fair,
And known of good report:

Therefore I tell thee flat,
Be packing with good speed; 30
I do defie thee from my heart,
And scorn thy filthy deed.

Is this the friendship, that
You did to me protest?
Is this the great affection, which 35
You so to me exprest?

Now fie on subtle shrews!
The best is, I may speed
To get a lodging any where,
For money in my need. 40

False woman, now farewell,
Whilst twenty pound doth last,
My anchor in some other haven
With freedom I will cast.

When she perceiv'd by this, 45
I had store of money there:
Stay, George, quoth she, thou art too quick:
Why, man, I did but jeer:

Dost think for all my speech,
That I would let thee go? 50
Faith no, said she, my love to thee
I wiss is more than so.

You scorne a prentice boy,
I heard you just now swear,
Wherefore I will not trouble you.---- 55
----Nay, George, hark in thine ear;

Thou shalt not go to-night,
What chance so e're befall:
But man we'll have a bed for thee,
O else the devil take all. 60

So I by wiles bewitcht,
And snar'd with fancy still,
Had then no power to 'get' away,
Or to withstand her will.

For wine on wine I call'd, 65
And cheer upon good cheer;
And nothing in the world I thought
For Sarah's love too dear.

Whilst in her company,
I had such merriment; 70
All, all too little I did think,
That I upon her spent.

A fig for care and thought!
When all my gold is gone,
In faith, my girl, we will have more, 75
Whoever I light upon.

My father's rich, why then
Should I want store of gold?
Nay with a father sure, quoth she,
A son may well make bold. 80

I've a sister richly wed,
I'll rob her ere I'll want.
Nay, then quoth Sarah, they may well
Consider of your scant.

Nay, I an uncle have; 85
At Ludlow he doth dwell:
He is a grazier, which in wealth
Doth all the rest excell.

Ere I will live in lack,
And have no coyn for thee: 90
I'll rob his house, and murder him,
Why should you not? quoth she:

Was I a man, ere I
Would live in poor estate;
On father, friends, and all my kin, 95
I would my talons grate.

For without money, George,
A man is but a beast:
But bringing money, thou shalt be
Always my welcome guest. 100

For shouldst thou be pursued
With twenty hues and cryes,
And with a warrant searched for
With Argus' hundred eyes,

Yet here thou shalt be safe; 105
Such privy ways there be,
That if they sought an hundred years,
They could not find out thee.

And so carousing both
Their pleasures to content: 110
George Barnwell had in little space
His money wholly spent.

Which done, to Ludlow straight
He did provide to go,
To rob his wealthy uncle there; 115
His minion would it so.

And once he thought to take
His father by the way,
But that he fear'd his master had
Took order for his stay[428]. 120

Unto his uncle then
He rode with might and main,
Who with a welcome and good cheer,
Did Barnwell entertain.

One fortnight's space he stayed, 125
Until it chanced so,
His uncle with his cattle did
Unto a market go.

His kinsman rode with him,
Where he did see right plain, 130
Great store of money he had took:
When coming home again,

Sudden within a wood,
He struck his uncle down,
And beat his brains out of his head; 135
So sore he crackt his crown.

Then seizing fourscore pound,
To London straight he hyed,
And unto Sarah Millwood all
The cruell fact descryed. 140

Tush,'tis no matter, George,
So we the money have
To have good cheer in jolly sort,
And deck us fine and brave.

Thus lived in filthy sort, 145
Until their store was gone:
When means to get them any more,
I wis, poor George, had none.

Therefore in railing sort,
She thrust him out of door: 150
Which is the just reward of those,
Who spend upon a whore.

O! do me not disgrace
In this my need, quoth he
She call'd him thief and murderer, 155
With all the spight might be:

To the constable she sent,
To have him apprehended;
And shewed how far, in each degree,
He had the laws offended. 160

When Barnwell saw her drift,
To sea he got straightway;
Where fear and sting of conscience
Continually on him lay.

Unto the lord mayor then, 165
He did a letter write;
In which his own and Sarah's fault
He did at large recite.

Whereby she seized was,
And then to Ludlow sent: 170
Where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd,
For murder incontinent.

There dyed this gallant quean,
Such was her greatest gains:
For murder in Polonia, 175
Was Barnwell hang'd in chains.

Lo! here's the end of youth,
That after harlots haunt;
Who in the spoil of other men,
About the streets do flaunt. 180

FOOTNOTES:

[426] The having a sum of money with him on Sunday, &c. shews this narrative to have been penned before the civil wars: the strict observance of the sabbath was owing to the change of manners at that period.

[427] [coy, shy.]

[428] _i.e._ for stopping, and apprehending him at his father's.

VII.

THE STEDFAST SHEPHERD.

These beautiful stanzas were written by _George Wither_, of whom some account was given in the former part of this volume; see the song intitled, _The Shepherd's Resolution_, book ii. song xxi. In the first edition of this work only a small fragment of this sonnet was inserted. It was afterwards rendered more compleat and intire by the addition of five stanzas more, extracted from Wither's pastoral poem, intitled, _The Mistress of Philarete_, of which this song makes a part. It is now given still more correct and perfect by comparing it with another copy, printed by the author in his improved edition of _The Shepherd's Hunting_, 1620, 8vo.

* * * * *

[The Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. iii. p. 360) contains
only the fifth and sixth stanzas slightly varied, which were
printed in the first edition of the _Reliques_, with the title of
_The Aspiring Shepherd_.]

* * * * *

Hence away, thou Syren, leave me,
Pish! unclaspe these wanton armes;
Sugred words can ne'er deceive me,
(Though thou prove a thousand charmes).
Fie, fie, forbeare; 5
No common snare
Can ever my affection chaine:
Thy painted baits,
And poore deceits,
Are all bestowed on me in vaine. 10

I'me no slave to such, as you be;
Neither shall that snowy brest,
Rowling eye, and lip of ruby
Ever robb me of my rest:

Goe, go display 15
Thy beautie's ray
To some more soone-enamour'd swaine;
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vaine. 20

I have elsewhere vowed a dutie;
Turne away thy tempting eye:
Shew not me a painted beautie;
These impostures I defie:
My spirit lothes 25
Where gawdy clothes
And fained othes may love obtaine:
I love her so,
Whose looke sweares No;
That all your labours will be vaine. 30

Can he prize the tainted posies,
Which on every brest are worne;
That may plucke the virgin roses
From their never-touched thorne?
I can goe rest 35
On her sweet brest,
That is the pride of Cynthia's traine:
Then stay thy tongue;
Thy mermaid song
Is all bestowed on me in vaine. 40

Hee's a foole, that basely dallies,
Where each peasant mates with him:
Shall I haunt the thronged vallies,
Whilst ther's noble hills to climbe?
No, no, though clownes 45
Are scar'd with frownes,
I know the best can but disdaine;
And those Ile prove:
So will thy love
Be all bestowed on me in vaine. 50

I doe scorne to vow a dutie,
Where each lustfull lad may wooe:
Give me her, whose sun-like beautie
Buzzards dare not soar unto:
Shee, shee it is 55
Affoords that blisse
For which I would refuse no paine:
But such as you,
Fond fooles, adieu;
You seeke to captive me in vaine. 60

Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me;
Seeke no more to worke my harmes:
Craftie wiles cannot deceive me,
Who am proofe against your charmes:
You labour may 65
To lead astray
The heart, that constant shall remaine:
And I the while
Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vaine. 70

VIII.

THE SPANISH VIRGIN, OR EFFECTS OF JEALOUSY.

The subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, intitled, _The theatre of God's judgments_, by Dr. Beard and Dr. Taylor, 1642. Pt. ii. p. 89.--The text is given (with corrections) from two copies; one of them in black-letter in the Pepys collection. In this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden:

"Oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell:
Depart from hence, and therein dwell."

* * * * *

All tender hearts, that ake to hear
Of those that suffer wrong;
All you, that never shed a tear,
Give heed unto my song.

Fair Isabella's tragedy 5
My tale doth far exceed:
Alas! that so much cruelty
In female hearts should breed!

In Spain a lady liv'd of late,
Who was of high degree; 10
Whose wayward temper did create
Much woe and misery.

Strange jealousies so fill'd her head
With many a vain surmize,
She thought her lord had wrong'd her bed, 15
And did her love despise.

A gentlewoman passing fair
Did on this lady wait;
With bravest dames she might compare;
Her beauty was compleat. 20

Her lady cast a jealous eye
Upon this gentle maid;
And taxt her with disloyaltye;
And did her oft upbraid.

In silence still this maiden meek 25
Her bitter taunts would bear,
While oft adown her lovely cheek
Would steal the falling tear.

In vain in humble sort she strove
Her fury to disarm; 30
As well the meekness of the dove
The bloody hawke might charm.

Her lord of humour light and gay,
And innocent the while,
As oft as she came in his way, 35
Would on the damsell smile.

And oft before his lady's face,
As thinking her her friend,
He would the maiden's modest grace
And comeliness commend. 40

All which incens'd his lady so
She burnt with wrath extreame;
At length the fire that long did glow,
Burst forth into a flame.

For on a day it so befell, 45
When he was gone from home,
The lady all with rage did swell,
And to the damsell come.

And charging her with great offence,
And many a grievous fault; 50
She bade her servants drag her thence,
Into a dismal vault,

That lay beneath the common-shore:
A dungeon dark and deep:
Where they were wont, in days of yore, 55
Offenders great to keep.

There never light of chearful day
Dispers'd the hideous gloom;
But dank and noisome vapours play
Around the wretched room: 60

And adders, snakes, and toads therein,
As afterwards was known,
Long in this loathsome vault had bin,
And were to monsters grown.

Into this foul and fearful place, 65
The fair one innocent
Was cast, before her lady's face;
Her malice to content.

This maid no sooner enter'd is,
But strait, alas! she hears 70
The toads to croak, and snakes to hiss:
Then grievously she fears.

Soon from their holes the vipers creep,
And fiercely her assail:
Which makes the damsel sorely weep, 75
And her sad fate bewail.

With her fair hands she strives in vain
Her body to defend:
With shrieks and cries she doth complain,
But all is to no end. 80

A servant listning near the door,
Struck with her doleful noise,
Strait ran his lady to implore;
But she'll not hear his voice.

With bleeding heart he goes agen 85
To mark the maiden's groans;
And plainly hears, within the den,
How she herself bemoans.

Again he to his lady hies
With all the haste he may: 90
She into furious passion flies,
And orders him away.

Still back again does he return
To hear her tender cries;
The virgin now had ceas'd to mourn; 95
Which fill'd him with surprize.

In grief, and horror, and affright,
He listens at the walls;
But finding all was silent quite,
He to his lady calls. 100

Too sure, O lady, now quoth he,
Your cruelty hath sped;
Make hast, for shame, and come and see;
I fear the virgin's dead.

She starts to hear her sudden fate, 105
And does with torches run:
But all her haste was now too late,
For death his worst had done.

The door being open'd strait they found
The virgin stretch'd along: 110
Two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round,
Which her to death had stung.

One round her legs, her thighs, her waist
Had twin'd his fatal wreath:
The other close her neck embrac'd, 115
And stopt her gentle breath.

The snakes, being from her body thrust,
Their bellies were so fill'd,
That with excess of blood they burst,
Thus with their prey were kill'd. 120

The wicked lady at this sight,
With horror strait ran mad;
So raving dy'd, as was most right,
'Cause she no pity had.

Let me advise you, ladies all, 125
Of jealousy beware:
It causeth many a one to fall,
And is the devil's snare.

[***]

IX.

JEALOUSY TYRANT OF THE MIND.

This Song is by _Dryden_, being inserted in his Tragi-Comedy of _Love Triumphant_, &c.--On account of the subject it is inserted here.

* * * * *

What state of life can be so blest,
As love that warms the gentle brest;
Two souls in one; the same desire
To grant the bliss, and to require?
If in this heaven a hell we find, 5
Tis all from thee,
O Jealousie!
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.

All other ills, though sharp they prove,
Serve to refine and perfect love: 10
In absence, or unkind disdaine,
Sweet hope relieves the lovers paine:
But, oh, no cure but death we find
To sett us free
From jealousie, 15
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.

False in thy glass all objects are,
Some sett too near, and some too far:
Thou art the fire of endless night,
The fire that burns, and gives no light. 20
All torments of the damn'd we find
In only thee,
O Jealousie;
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.

X.

CONSTANT PENELOPE.

The ladies are indebted for the following notable documents to the Pepys collection, where the original is preserved in black-letter, and is intitled, _A lookingglass for ladies, or a mirrour for married women_. Tune _Queen Dido, or Troy town_.

* * * * *

When Greeks and Trojans fell at strife,
And lords in armour bright were seen;
When many a gallant lost his life
About fair Hellen, beauty's queen;
Ulysses, general so free, 5
Did leave his dear Penelope.

When she this wofull news did hear,
That he would to the warrs of Troy;
For grief she shed full many a tear,
At parting from her only joy; 10
Her ladies all about her came,
To comfort up this Grecian dame.

Ulysses, with a heavy heart,
Unto her then did mildly say,
The time is come that we must part; 15
My honour calls me hence away;
Yet in my absence, dearest, be
My constant wife, Penelope.

Let me no longer live, she sayd,
Then to my lord I true remain; 20
My honour shall not be betray'd
Until I see my love again;
For I will ever constant prove,
As is the loyal turtle-dove.

Thus did they part with heavy chear, 25
And to the ships his way he took;
Her tender eyes dropt many a tear;
Still casting many a longing look:
She saw him on the surges glide,
And unto Neptune thus she cry'd: 30

Thou god, whose power is in the deep,
And rulest in the ocean main,
My loving lord in safety keep
Till he return to me again:
That I his person may behold, 35
To me more precious far than gold.

Then straight the ships with nimble sails
Were all convey'd out of her sight:
Her cruel fate she then bewails,
Since she had lost her hearts delight. 40
Now shall my practice be, quoth she,
True vertue and humility.

My patience I will put in ure,[429]
My charity I will extend;
Since for my woe there is no cure, 45
The helpless now I will befriend:
The widow and the fatherless
I will relieve, when in distress.

Thus she continued year by year
In doing good to every one; 50
Her fame was noised every where,
To young and old the same was known,
That she no company would mind,
Who were to vanity inclin'd.

Mean while Ulysses fought for fame, 55
'Mongst Trojans hazarding his life:
Young gallants, hearing of her name,
Came flocking for to tempt his wife:
For she was lovely, young, and fair,
No lady might with her compare. 60

With costly gifts and jewels fine,
They did endeavour her to win;
With banquets and the choicest wine,
For to allure her unto sin:
Most persons were of high degree, 65
Who courted fair Penelope.

With modesty and comely grace,
Their wanton suits she did denye;
No tempting charms could e'er deface
Her dearest husband's memorye; 70
But constant she would still remain,
Hopeing to see him once again.

Her book her dayly comfort was,
And that she often did peruse;
She seldom looked in her glass; 75
Powder and paint she ne'er would use.
I wish all ladies were as free
From pride, as was Penelope.

She in her needle took delight,
And likewise in her spinning-wheel; 80
Her maids about her every night
Did use the distaff, and the reel:
The spiders, that on rafters twine,
Scarce spin a thread more soft and fine.

Sometimes she would bewail the loss 85
And absence of her dearest love:
Sometimes she thought the seas to cross,
Her fortune on the waves to prove.

I fear my lord is slain, quoth she,
He stays so from Penelope. 90

At length the ten years siege of Troy
Did end: in flames the city burn'd;
And to the Grecians was great joy,
To see the towers to ashes turn'd:
Then came Ulysses home to see 95
His constant, dear, Penelope.

O blame her not if she was glad,
When she her lord again had seen.
Thrice-welcome home, my dear, she said,
A long time absent thou hast been: 100
The wars shall never more deprive
Me of my lord whilst I'm alive.

Fair ladies all example take;
And hence a worthy lesson learn,
All youthful follies to forsake, 105
And vice from virtue to discern:
And let all women strive to be,
As constant as Penelope.

FOOTNOTES:

[429] [use.]

XI.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.

By Col. Richard Lovelace: from the volume of his poems, intitled _Lucasta_, (Lond. 1649. 12mo.). The elegance of this writer's manner would be more admired, if it had somewhat more of simplicity.

* * * * *

[Percy's admirers would be glad to expunge the above unjust
judgment. Some of Lovelace's poems may be affected, but that charge
cannot be brought against these exquisite verses, the last two of
which have become a world-famed quotation.]

* * * * *

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flie.

True, a new mistresse now I chase, 5
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore; 10
I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.

XII.

VALENTINE AND URSINE.

The old story-book of _Valentine and Orson_ (which suggested the plan of this tale, but it is not strictly followed in it) was originally a translation from the French, being one of their earliest attempts at romance. See _Le Bibliothèque de Romans, &c._

The circumstance of the bridge of bells is taken from the old metrical legend of Sir Bevis, and has also been copied in the _Seven Champions_. The original lines are,

"Over the dyke a bridge there lay,
That man and beest might passe away:
Under the brydge were sixty belles;
Right as the Romans telles;
That there might no man passe in,
But all they rang with a gyn."

Sign. E. iv.

In the Editor's folio MS. was an old poem on this subject, in a wretched corrupt state, unworthy the press: from which were taken such particulars as could be adopted.

* * * * *

[The poem entitled _The Emperour and the Childe_ in the Folio MS.
(ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 390) only suggested the
subject of the present ballad. It commences--

Within the Grecyan land some time did dwell
an Emperour, whose name did ffar excell;
he tooke to wiffe the lady B[e]llefaunt,
the only sister to the kinge of ffrance,
with whome he liued in pleasure and delight
vntill that ffortune came to worke them spighte.

There are no particular signs of "corruption," and the piece is
probably superior to Percy's own effusion.

Percy's trumpery commencement is an echo of the beginning of the
printed copies of _Sir Andrew Barton_.

The name Ursine, like that of Orson, is derived from Fr. _Ourson_,
the diminutive of _Ours_, a bear (Latin, _ursus_.)]

* * * * *