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"Whatte though I onne a sledde be Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, drawne,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke, And mangled by a hynde,
190 “Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! 235 I doe defye the traytor's pow'r,
Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke: Hee can ne harm my mynd;
"Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou “Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole,
goe, Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe? And ne ryche monument of brasse 195 The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thy necke,
Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe." 240 “Yett ynne the holie booke above, Whyche tyme can't eate awaie,
And nowe the officers came ynne There wythe the servants of the Lord
To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Mye name shall lyve for aie.
Whoe turnedd toe hys loyvnge wyfe,
And thus to her dydd saie: "Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne I leave thys mortall lyfe:
“I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;
245 Farewell, vayne world, and alle that's
Truste thou ynne Godde above, deare,
And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde, Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!
And ynne theyre hertes hym love: "Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes, 205
“Teache them to runne the nobile race As e'er the moneth of Maie; Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
Thatt I theyre fader runne;
Florence! shou'd dethe thee take-adieu! Wyth my dere wyfe to staie."
Yee officers, leade onne.”
Thenne Florence raved as anie madde,
“Oh, staie, mye husbande, lorde, and
255 And nowe the belle began to tolle, And claryonnes to sound;
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravyngs loude,
Shee fellen? onne the flore; And just before the officers
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte, His lovynge wyfe came ynne,
And marched fromm oute the dore. 260 Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, “Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,
Wythe lookes full brave and swete; Ynne quiet lett mee die;
Lookes thatt enshone' ne more concern Praie Godd thatt ev'ry Christian soule
Thanne anie ynne the strete. Maye looke onne dethe as I.
Before hym went the council-menne, 265 "Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers?
Ynne scarlett robes and golde, Theye washe my soule awaie, 226
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne, And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
Muche glorious to beholde: Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie. “ 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe
The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next Untoe the lande of blysse;
230 Appeared to the syghte, Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes, Receive thys holie kysse.”
Of godlie monkysh plyghte: 1 slave.
Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt;
uppe, Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles And thus hys words declare: came,
275 Who tuned the strungel bataunt. “Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile!
Exposed to infamie;
I'm greater nowe thanne thee.
280 “Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
Thou wearest nowe a crowne; Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,
And hast appoynted mee to die, Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde,
By power nott thyne owne.
320 Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,
“Thou thynkest I shall die to-daie;
I have beene dede 'till nowe, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:
And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
For aie uponne my browe:
Of archers stronge and stoute,
“Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few
325 Marched ynne goodlie route;
Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule Seincte Jameses Freers marched next, 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande: Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
290 Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles “Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave! came,
Shall falle onne thye owne hedde”— 330 Who tuned the strunge bataunt: Fromm out of hearying of the kynge
Departed thenne the sledde.
Kynge Edwarde's soule rushed to hys face,
And to hys broder Gloucester
Hee thus dydd speke and saie:
“To hym that soe much dreaded dethe The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes, Ne ghastlie terrors brynge, As hee dydd passe alonge.
Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,
Hee's greater thanne a kynge!”. And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
“Soe let hym die!” Duke Richard sayde; Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
“And maye echone oure foes “O`Thou, thatt savest manne fromme Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe synne,
And feede the carryon crowes." Washe mye soule clean thys daie!”
And nowe the horses gentlie drewe 345 Att the grete mynster? wyndowe sat 305 Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle; The kynge ynne myckle state,
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne, To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
His pretious bloude to spylle. To hys most welcom fate.
Syrr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe, Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, As uppe a gilded carre
350 Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, 310 Of victorye, bye val’rous chiefs I stringed. 2 cathedral
Gayned ynne the bloudie warre:
And to the people hee dyd saie,
MYNSTRELLES SONGE “Beholde you see mee dye, For servynge loyally mye kynge, 355
From ÆLLA: A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE Mye kynge most rightfullie.
O, synge untoe mie roundelaie! “As longe as Edwarde rules thys land,
O, droppe the brynie teare wythe mee! Ne quiet you wylle knowe:
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee Lycke a reynynge ryver bee; slayne,
Mie love ys dedde, And brookes wythe bloude shall flowe.
Gon to hys death-bedde, "You leave youre goode and lawfulle
Al under the wyllowe tree. kynge,
361 Whenne ynne adversitye;
Blacke hys cryne? as the wyntere nyghte, Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
Whyte hys rodeo as the sommer snowe, And for the true cause dye.”
Rodde hys face as the morynynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys
Mie love ys dedde, knees,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, 15
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys bee, hedde
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, Most seemlie onne the blocke; 370 O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
Mie love ys dedde, The able heddes-manne stroke:
Gonne to hys death-bedde, And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
Alle underre the wyllowe tree. And rounde the scaffolde twyne;
Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, And teares, enow to washe 't awaie, 375
In the briered delle belowe; Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; 25 Ynnto foure parties cutte;
Mie love ys dedde, And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde,
Gonne to hys death-bedde, Uponne a pole was putte.
Al under the wyllowe tree. One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph
See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; hylle, Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
30 One onne the mynster-tower,
Whyterre yanne® the mornynge skie, And one from off the castle-gate
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude, The crowen dydd devoure;
Mie love dedde, The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode
Gon to hys death-bedde, gate,
Al under the wyllowe tree. 35
385 A dreery spectacle; Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, crosse, Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde. Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate:
Mie love ys dedde, Godde prosper longe oure kynge, 390
Gonne to hys death-bedde, And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's Alle under the wyllowe tree. soule,
* ruddy. 5 cold. Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge!
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
Shall plough the wave no more.
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny
skin, From BOOK I
The vellum of the pedigree they claim. There often wanders one, whom better Great skill have they in palmistry, and
days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed To conjure clean away the gold they touch, With lace, and hat with splendid riband Conveying worthless dross into its place; bound.
536 Loud when they beg, dumb only when they A serving-maid was she, and fell in love steal. With one who left her, went to sea, and Strange! that a creature rational, and cast died.
In human mould, should brutalize by Her fancy followed him through foaming choice
His nature, and, though capable of arts To distant shores, and she would sit and By which the world might profit and himweep
self, At what a sailor suffers; fancy too,
Self-banished from society, prefer Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Such squalid sloth to honorable toil! Would oft anticipate his glad return, Yet even these, though, feigning sickness And dream of transports she was not to oft,
They swathe the forehead, drag the limpShe heard the doleful tidings of his death, ing limb, And never smiled again. And now she And vex their flesh with artificial sores,
546 Can change their whine into a mirthful The dreary waste; there spends the live- note long day,
When safe occasion offers; and with dance, And there, unless when charity forbids, And music of the bladder and the bag, 585 The livelong night. A tattered apron Beguile their woes, and make the woods
resound. Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy gown
The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; More tattered still; and both but ill con- And breathing wholesome air, and wanderceal
ing much, A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. Need other physic none to heal the effects She begs an idle pin of all she meets, Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. 591 And hoards them in her sleeve; but need
ful food, Though pressed with hunger oft, or come
From BOOK II lier clothes,
555 Though pinched with cold, asks never.- Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Kate is crazed.
Some boundless contiguity of shade, I see a column of slow-rising smoke Where rumor of oppression and deceit, O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. Of unsuccessful or successful war, A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Might never reach me more! My ear is Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 560 pained, Between two poles upon a stick transverse, My soul is sick with every day's report Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, Of wrong and outrage with which earth is Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined filled. From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, race!
It does not feel for man; the natural bond They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 565 Of brotherhood is severed as the flax Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves That falls asunder at the touch of fire. unquenched
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin The spark of life. The sportive wind Not colored like his own, and, having blows wide