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EVANS'S
COLLECTION OF OLD
BALLADS, Continued
XLI.
"THE
MERRY CARELESSE LOVER:
OR,
A
pleasant new Ditty, called,
I love a
lasse since yesterday,
And yet I
cannot get her."
To the
tune of — The Mother beguiled the Daughter.
[From a
black letter copy, printed for Coules.]
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OFT have I heard of many men,
Whom love hath
sore tormented,
With grief of heart and bitter smart,
And minds much
discontented,
Such love to me shall never be distasteful, grievous,
bitter.
I have loved a
lass since yesterday,
And yet I cannot get her.
But let her
choose, if she refuse,
And go to take another,
I will not
grieve, but still will be
The merry careless lover.
I will no foolish lover be
To waste my
means upon her,
But if she do prove firm to me,
In heart I will
her honour,
And if she scorn my part to take
I know a way to
fit her;
My heart with grief shall never ache,
What man soever
get her.
Then let her choose if she refuse,
And go to take
another.
I will not grieve but still will be
The merry careless lover.
And yet I know not what to think,
She makes a
show she loves me,
What need I fear from me she'll shrink,
Some foolish
passion moves me,
Sometimes to hope, sometimes to fear
It hangs upon a
twitter;
Whether she hates or loves me dear,
To lose her or
to get her.
But let her choose, if she refuse, &c.
Some women they are firm in love,
And some they
are uncertain,
Scarce one in twenty loyal prove,
Yet if it were
my fortune,
To get this lass unto my wife,
I know not one
more fitter,
In lawful love to lead our lives,
If 't were my
hap to get her,
But let her choose, &c.
I am a man indifferent,
Whether she
will or will not,
My sweet-heart be, for love to me,
If she does
not, it skills not,
If she fancy me, I'll. constant be,
This lass she
is a knitter,
And I have loved her since yesterday,
But yet I
cannot get her.
But let her choose, if she refuse,
And go to take
another,
I'll never grieve but still will be,
The merry
careless lover.
SECOND PART.
This lass she doth in Yorkshire live,
There in a town
called Forset,
Her mind to labour she doth give,
She can knit
silk or worsted,
I know not well what I should say,
In speech she's
sometimes bitter,
And I have her lov'd since yesterday,
And yet I
cannot get her.
But let her choose if she refuse,
And go to take
another,
I'll never grieve, but still will be
The merry
careless lover.
Sometimes she will upon me smile,
And sometimes
she is sullen,
As she doth sit, and stockings knit
Of jarsy and of
woollen,
She gets the praise above the rest
To be a curious
knitter,
She loves me as she cloth profess,
And yet I
cannot get her.
But let her choose, &c.
Her portion is not very much,
But for the
same what care
So she with me will but keep touch,
And not in mind
will vary;
For pelf I do not pass a straw,
Her beauty
likes me better,
For I have lov'd her since yesterday,
And yet I
cannot get her.
But let her choose, &c.
I will bethink me what is best.
A way for to be
taken,
Her love to gain, and her obtain,
I would not be
forsaken;
Nor would I have her say me nay,
Nor give me
speeches bitter,
For I have lov'd her since yesterday,
And yet I
cannot get her.
But let her choose, &c.
I have her father's free consent,
That she with
me should marry,
Her mother likewise is content,
And grieves
that she should carry
So proud a mind, or be unkind
To me in
speeches bitter;
For I hear to her a loving mind,
And yet I
cannot get her,
But let her choose, &c.
With her I at a wedding was,
Where we did
dance together,
She is a curious handsome lass,
And yet like
wind and weather
Her mind doth change, she's kind, she's strange,
Mild, gentle,
cruel, bitter,
Yet howsoere I love her dear,
And yet I
cannot get her.
But let her choose, &c.
Yet will I hope upon the best,
All foolish
fears excluding,
And at her faithful service rest.
Thus here in
brief concluding,
With some dear friend to her I'll send
A kind and
loving letter,
And hope in time her love to gain,
And for my wife
to get her.
And then I'll sing with merry cheer
This ditty and
no other,
Whilst breath does last, and life be past,
I'll be a
faithful lover.
FINIS.
By Robert Guy.
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XLI.
"THE MARRYED MAN'S LESSON:
OR,
A
Disswasion from Jealousie."
To the
tune of — All you that will woo a Wench.
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You men who are married carne hearken to me,
I'll teach you
a lesson if wise you will be,
Then take my advice that's intended for good,
And so 'tis if
it be but well understood:
'Twill cause you to shun all contention and spleen,
That daily
betwixt man and woman are seen,
I speak against jealousy, that monster fierce,
And wish I could
conquer the fiend with my verse,
O be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
For jealousy
makes many good women bad.
If thou have a good wife then I thee advise,
To cherish her
well, for she is a rare prize,
If she, be indifferent between good and bad,
Good means to
reform her may easily be had:
If she be so evil that there are few worse,
Imagine thy
sins have deserved that curse,
Then bear with true patience thy cross as 't is fit,
And thou to a
blessing thereby may'st turn it,
But be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
For jealousy
makes many good women bad.
Between these three wives, the good, bad, and the mean.
I ground the
whole argument of this my theme,
For in them a man's human bliss or his woe
Doth chiefly consist as experience doth
show,
Thus is it not counsel that's worthy regard,
Which teaches
to soften a thing that is hard,
And what I intend is in every man's will
To turn to a
virtue what seemeth most ill:
Then be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
For jealousy
makes many good women bad:
A wife that is good, being beautiful, may
Perhaps raise
suspicion, that she'll go astray,
O note the fond humours that most men possess,
They're neither
content with the more nor the less,
For if she be homely, then her will he Slight,
Such man
neither fair nor foul can delight,
If once he be jealous the other he scorns,
There's no
greater plague than imagin'd horns.
Then be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
For jealousy
makes many good women bad.
A wife that's indifferent between good and ill,
Is she that in
houswifery shews her good will,
Yet sometimes her voice she too much elevates,
Is that the
occasion for which he her hates?
A sovereign remedy for this disease
Is to hold thy
tongue, let her say what she please;
Judge, is not this better than to fight and scratch,
For silence
will soonest a shrew overmatch.
However I pray thee shun jealousy, lad,
For jealousy makes
many good women bad.
A wife that's all bad, if thy luck be to have,
Seek not to
reclaim her by making her slave,
If she be as bad as ever trod on ground,
Not fighting or
jealousy will heal thy wound:
For mark when a river is stopt in its course,
It o'erflows
the banks, then the danger is worse,
Thy own example and patience withall,
May her from
her vices much rather recall.
Then be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
For jealousy
makes many good women bad.
SECOND PART:
A wife that is virtuous in every respect,
Who doth her
vow'd duty at no time neglect,
She's not free from censure, for fools their bolts shoot.
As oft at the
head as they do at the foot:
A kiss or a smile, or a jest or a dance,
Familiar
discourse, or an amorous glance.
All these, as her witness, Envy doth bring,
The credit of
innocent women to sting.
But be not thou jealous, I pray thee, dear lad,
For jealousy
makes many good women bad.
A wife's that's indifferent if curb'd overmuch,
Will grow worse
and worse, for their nature is such.
The more thou with rigor doth seek her to mend,
The more
they'll persist, and grow desperate in th' end.
And thus from indifferency wanting good means,
Some well
meaning women turn impudent queans.
If goodness, by beating them, thou seek'st to infuse,
For breaking
her flesh thou all goodness dost bruise.
A wife at the worst (as I told you before)
A drunkard, a
swearer, a scold, thief, or whore,
By gentle persuasions reclaimed may be,
Myself by
experience but lately did see;
A man that with jealousy plagued hath been,
When he the
last labour and trouble had seen,
He cast off his care and refer'd all to 's wife,
Who soon left
her vices and led a new life.
I also have known a wife, handsome and neat,
Of whom her
fond husband did take a conceit,
That other men lov'd her because she was fair,
Though on the
contrary to him she did swear,
He watcht her, he eyed her, he noted her ways,
And once he in
's drink a scandal would raise,
This usage irregular set her on fire,
And so from
thenceforward she prov'd him no liar.
Consider each circumstance with good regard,
How oft
causeless jealousy wins due reward,
And likewise I wish thee to bear in thy breast,
That patience
and quietness still is the best,
For if she be naught she'll grow worse with restraint,
But patience
may make of a harlot a saint,
If fair means prevail not thou'll ne'er do it by foul,
For meekness
(if any thing) must win a soul.
Now, lastly, to bath men and women I speak,
From this
foolish fancy their humours to break;
Be loving and tractable each unto other,
And what is
amiss let affection still smother.
So shall man and wife in sympathy sweet,
At board and at
bed (as they ought to do) meet,
All fighting, and scratching, and scolding shall cease,
Where
jealousy's harbour'd there can be no peace.
Then be not thou jealous, I pray thee, dear lad,
For jealousy
makes many good women bad.
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XLII.
"A
merry jest of John Tomson, and Jackaman his wife,
Whose
jealousie was justly the cause of all their strife."
To the
tune of Pegge of Ramsay.
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WHEN I was a bachelor,
I liv'd a merry
life,
But now I am a married man,
And troubled
with a wife,
I cannot do as I have done,
Because I live
in fear;
If I go but to Islington
My wife is
watching there.
Give me my yellow hose again,
Give me my
yellow hose,
For now my wife she watcheth me,
See yonder
where she goes.
But when I was apprentice bound,
And my
indentures made,
In many faults I have been found.
Yet never thus
afraid;
For if I chance now by the way
A woman for to
kiss,
The rest are ready for to say,
Thy wife shall
know of this.
Give me my
yellow hose, &c.
Thus when I come in company,
I pass my mirth
in fear,
For one or other merrily
Will say my
wife is there;
And then my look doth make them laugh,
To see my
woeful case,
How I stand like John hold-my-staff,
And dare not
shew my face.
Give me my
yellow hose, &c.
Then comes a handsome woman in,
And shakes me
by the hand,
But how my wife she did begin,
Now you shall
understand;
Fair dame (quoth she) why dost thou so,
He gave his
hand to me,
And thou shalt know, before thou go,
He is no man
for thee.
Give me,
&c.
Good wife (quoth she) now do not scold,
I will do so no
more,
I thought I might have been so bold,
I knowing him
before.
With that my wife was almost mad,
Yet many did
intreat her,
And I, God knows, was very sad
For fear she
would have beat her.
Give me my
yellow hose, &c.
Thus marriage is an enterprise,
Experience doth
shew,
But scolding is an exercise,
That married
men do know;
For all this while there were no blows,
Yet still their
tongues were talking
And very fain would yellow hose
Have had her
fists a walking.
Give me,
&c.
In comes a neighbour of our town,
An honest man,
God wot,
And he must needs go sit him down,
And call in for
his pot.
And said to me, I am the man
Which gave to
you your wife,
And I will do the best I can
To mend this
wicked life.
Give me my yellow hose again,
Give me my
yellow hose,
For now my wife she watcheth me,
See yonder
where she goes.
SECOND PART.
I gave him thanks and bad him go,
And so he did
indeed,
And told 'my wife she was a shrew,
But that was
more than need.
Saith he, thou hast an honest man,
And one that
loves thee well,
Saith she, you are a fool, good Sir,
It's more than
you can tell.
Give me my
yellow hose, &c.
And yet in truth he loveth me,
But many more
beside,
And I may say, good Sir, to thee,
That cannot I
abide.
For though he loves me as his life,
Yet now, Sir,
wot you what,
They say he loves his neighbour's wife,
I pray you how
like you that?
Give me,
&c.
Saith he, I hope I never shall
Seek fancy fond
to follow,
For love is lawful unto all,
Except it be
too yellow.
Which lieth like the Jaundice so,
In these our
women's faces,
That watch their husbands where they go,
And haunt them
out in places.
Give me my
yellow hose, &c.
Now comes my neighbour's wife apace,
To talk a word
or two,
My wife then meets her face to face,
And saith, Dame
is it you,
That makes so much of my good man,
As if he were
your own,
Then clamp as closely as you can?
I know it will
be known.
Give me,
&c.
Now when I saw the woman gone,
I call'd my
wife aside,
And said, why art thou such a one,
That thou canst
not abide
A woman for to talk with me,
This is a
woeful case,
That I must keep no company,
Except you be
in place.
Give me,
&c.
This maketh bachelors to halt
So long before
they wed,
Because they hear that women now
Will he their
husband's head.
And seven long year I tarried
For Jakaman my
wife,
But now that I am married,
I'm weary of my
life.
Give me,
&c.
For yellow love is too too bad,
Without all wit
or policy,
And too much love hath made her mad,
And fill'd her
full of jealousy.
She thinks I am in love with those
I speak to
passing by:
That makes her wear the yellow hose
I gave her for
to dye.
Give me,
&c.
But now I see she is so hot,
And lives so
much at ease,
I will go get a soldier's coat,
And sail beyond
the seas:
To serve my captain where and when;
Though it be to
my pain,
Thus farewell, gentle Jakaman,
Till we two
meet again.
Give me,
&c.
Quoth she, good husband, do not deal
Thus hardly now
with me,
And of a truth I will reveal
My cause of
jealousy:
You know I always paid the score,
You put me
still in trust:
I saved twenty pound and more,
Confess it
needs I must.
Give me,
&c.
But now my saving of the same,
For aught that
I do know,
Made Jealousy to fire her frame
To weave this web of woe;
And thus this foolish love of mine
Was very fondly
bent,
But now my gold and goods are this,
Good husband be
content.
Give me,
&c.
And thus to lead my life anew
I fully now
purpose,
That thou may'st change thy coat of blue,
And I my yellow
hose.
This being done, our country wives
May warning
take by me,
How they do live such jealous lives,
As I have done
with thee.
Give me my yellow hose again,
Give me my
yellow hose;
For now my wife she watcheth me,
See yonder
where she goes.
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XLIII.
Countryman's Bill of Charges for his coming up to London,
declared by a Whistle.
Tune —
King Henry, &c.
|
DIOGENES that laugh'd to see
A mare once eat
a thistle,
Would surely smile and laugh the while,
To hear me sing
my whistle,
For now 'tis meant we must invent
A silent way of
ringing,
And so for fear least some should hear,
Must whistle
'stead of singing.
With a hey down, with a how down
With a haw down, down, down derry,
Since that we
may
Nor sing, nor
say
We'll whistle and be merry.
A countryman to London came
To view the
famous city,
And here his charge did grow so large,
It made me
write this ditty,
For in a bill he set down still
His charge from
the beginning,
Which I did find, and now do mind,
To whistle
stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Imprimis, coming unto town,
And at my inn
alighting,
I almost spent a noble crown
In potting and
in piping:
Item, that the tapster there,
My jugs half
full did bring in,
I dare not say he was a K.
But I'll
whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Item, that I went abroad,
And had my
purse soon picked,
While I did stare on London ware,
By a pick-purse
I was fitted:
Item, that I met a wench,
That put me
down in drinking,
I dare not say what she made me pay,
But I'll
whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Item, that I met withall
A very loving
cousin,
Who needs would be of my country,
And gave me
half a dozen,
And at the last a pair of cards
They cunningly
did bring in,
I will not say what they made me pay,
But I'll
whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Item, that I daily went
Unto my
lawyer's chamber,
And he did say, I should win the day
Without all
fear or danger.
But then at last, for charge and cost
He such a bill
did bring in,
I will not say what he made me pay,
But I'll
whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Item, that I paid for there
A bagpipe in a
bottle,
Which did begin to hiss and sing
When we did
stir the stople.
Item, that one night I did lie
In the Counter
for my drinking,
I will not say what I paid next day,
But I'll
whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Item, that at last I came
To take my
horse again,
But my horse look't never worse,
His belly did
complain,
For he alas! for want of hay,
Stood o'er the
manger grinning,
Yet they made me pay for night and day,
But I'll
whistle instead of singing.
SECOND PART,
OR,
Countryman's going down into the Country, declared by a
Whistle, to the same tune.
Thus having got from London once,
He rid full
heavy hearted,
For like an honest man, he had
From all his
money parted;
His cloak-bag full of papers was,
Instead of
money gingling,
I dare not boast what those papers cost,
But I'll
whistle 'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Imprimis, coming home, he found
His good wife Joan a brewing,
And did not defer, but unto her
His papers fell
to shewing,
But when she saw, nothing but law,
She fell to
scold and flinging,
But all that day he kept away
And whistled
'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Item, that he went to plough,
Which whiles
that he was driving,
Alas! says he, what fools are we,
In law to fall
a striving.
For now I mean to keep my teams,
Which shall
good profit bring in,
I must drive on, my money's gone,
And whistle 'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Item, that his neighbours came
To ask what
news at London,
Alas, says he, more wiser be,
For fear that
you be undone.
Spend not at term what you do earn,
Whilst that
your wives are spinning,
Which makes me now to drive the plough,
And whistle
'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
For be it known unto you all,
That I my money
spended,
Such fools as I will beggars die,
Before their
lives are ended;
Therefore beware, and have more care,
When that your
money is gingling,
Least when 'tis spent you do repent,
And whistle
'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
Yet one more item I will add,
Since that my
song is ended,
My item's this, that I would wish
No man to be
offended;
With all my items but to save
His money when
'tis gingling,
Least when 'tis spent he do repent,
And whistle
'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.
|
XLIV.
"How Robin Good-Fellow went in the shape of a Fidler
to a wedding, and of the sport that he had there."
[From the
second part of Robin Good-Fellow, commonly called Hob Goblin. 4to. 1628.]
To the
tune of — Watton Townes end.
|
IT was a country lad,
That fashions strange would see,
And he came to a vaulting schoole,
Where tumblers use to be:
He lik't his sport so well,
That from it he'd not part
His doxey to him still did cry,
Come busse thine owne sweet heart.
They lik't his gold so well,
That they were both content,
That he that night with his sweet heart,
Should passe in merryment:
To bed they then, did goe,
Full well he knew his part,
Where he with words, and eke with deedes,
Did busse his owne sweet heart.
Long were they not in bed.
But one knockt at the dore,
And said, Up! rise, and let me in:
This vext both knave and whore;
He being sore perplext,
From bed did lightly start,
No longer then could he indure
To busse his owne sweet heart.
With tender steps he trod,
To see if he could spye
The man, that did him so molest,
Which he with heavy eye
Had soone beheld, and said,
Alas! my owne sweet heart
I now doe doubt if ere we busse,
It must be at a cart.
At last the bawd arose
And opened the dore,
And saw Discretion cloth'd in rug,
Whose office hates a whore:
He mounted up the stayres,
Being cunning in his arte,
With little search, at last he found
My youth and his sweet heart.
He having wit at will,
Unto them both did say:
I will not heare them speak one word,
Watch-men with them away;
And cause they lov'd so well,
'Tis pitty they should part:
Away with them to new bride-well,
There busse your owne sweet heart.
His will it was fulfil'd,
And there they had the law;
And whilst that they did nimbly spin.
The hempe he needs must taw:
He ground, he thump't, he grew
So cunning in his arte,
He learnt the trade of beating hempe,
By bussing his sweet heart.
But yet he still would say,
If I could get release,
To see strange fashions I'le give o're,
And henceforth live in peace,
The towne where I was bred,
And thinke by my desert
To come no more into this place,
For bussing my sweet heart.
|
XLV.
"True Relation of one Susan Higges, dwelling in
Risborow, a towne in Buckinghamshire, and how she lived 20 yeeres, by robbing
on the high wayes, yet unsuspected of all that knew her; till at last coming to
Messeldon, and there robbing and murdering a woman; which woman knew her. and
standing by her while she gave three groanes, she spat three drops of blood in
her face, which nover could be washt, out, by which shee was knowne, and executed
for the aforesaid murder, at the assises in Lent at Brickhill."
To the tune of — The Worthy London Prentice.
|
TO mourn for my offences,
And, former
passed sins,
This sad and doleful story,
My heavy heart
begins:
Most wickedly I spent my time,
Devoid of godly
grace,
A lewder woman never liv'd,
I think in any
place.
Near Buckingham I dwelled,
And Susan
Higges by name,
Well thought of by good gentlemen,
And farmers of
good fame;
Where thus for twenty years at least,
I liv'd in gallant sort:
Which made the country marvel much
To hear of my
report.
My state was not maintained,
(As you shall
understand)
By good and honest dealings,
Nor labours of
my hand,
But by deceit and cozening shifts
The end whereof
we see,
Hath ever been repaid with shame,
And ever like
to he.
My servants were young country girls,
Brought up unto
my mind,
By nature fair and beautiful,
And of a gentle
kind:
Who with their sweet enticing eyes
Did many
youngsters move,
To come by night unto my house,
In hope of
further love.
But still at their close meetings
(As I the plot
had laid)
I stept in still at unawares,
While they the
wantons play'd,
And would in question bring their names,
Except they did
agree,
To give me money for this wrong,
Done to my
house and me.
This was but petty cozenage
To things that
I have done,
My weapon by the highway side,
Hath me much
money won:
In men's attire I oft have rode
Upon a gelding
stout.
And done great robberies valiantly,
The countries
round about.
I had my scarfes and vizors
My face for to
disguise,
Sometimes a beard upon my chin,
To blind the
people's eyes:
My Turkey blade and pistols good,
My courage to
maintain,
Thus took I many a farmer's purse
Well cram'd
with golden gain.
Great store of London merchants,
I boldly have
bid stand,
And shewed myself most bravely,
A woman of my
hand:
You ruffling roysters every one,
In my defence
say then
We women still for gallant minds
May well
compare with men.
SECOND PART.
But if so be it chanced
The countries
were beset,
With hue, and cries, and warrants,
Into my house I
get,
And I so being with my maids,
Would cloak the
matter so,
That no man could, by any means,
The right
offender know.
Yet God that still most justly
Doth punish
every vice,
Did bring unto confusion,
My fortunes in
a trice;
For by a murder all my sins
Were strangely brought to light,
And such desert I had by law
As justice
claim'd by right.
Upon the heath of Misseldon,
I met a woman
there,
And robb'd her as from market
Homewards she
did repair,
Which woman call'd me by my name,
And said that she me knew,
For which even with her life's dear blood
My hands I did
embrue.
But after I had wounded
This woman unto
death,
And that her bleeding body
Was almost reft
of breath:
She gave a groan, and therewithall
Did spit upon my face
Three drops of blood, that never could
Be wiped from
that place.
For after I returned
Unto my house
again,
The more that I it wash'd
It more
appeared plain:
Each hour I thought that beasts and birds
This murder
would reveal,
Or that the air so vile a deed
No longer would
conceal.
So heavy at my conscience
This woeful
murder lay,
That I was soon enforced,
The same for to
bewray,
And to my servants made it known,
As God
appointed me,
For blood can never secret rest,
Nor long
unpunisht be.
My servants to the justices
Declar'd what I
had said,
For which I was attached,
And to the jail convey'd,
And at the 'sizes was condemn'd,
And had my just
desert,
E'en such a death let all them have,
That hear so
false a heart.
So farewell, earthly pleasure,
My 'quaintance
all adieu,
With whom I spent the treasure,
Which causeth
me to rue.
Leave off your wanton pastimes,
Lascivious and
ill,
Which without God's great mercy
Both soul and
body kill.
Be warned by this story
You ruffling
roysters all:
The higher that you climb in sin,
The greater is
your fall:
And since the world so wicked is,
Let all desire
grace,
Grant, Lord, that I the last may be
That runneth
such a race!
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XLVI.
THE
MAIDEN'S TRAGEDY,
OR,
A brief
Account of a young Damsell near Wolverhampton, who cut her throat in despair,
because she could not have the man she loved.
To the
tune of Russell's Farewell.
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NEAR Wolverhampton liv'd a maid,
Who fell into
despair,
Her yielding heart was soon betray'd,
Into Love's
fatal snare:
A young man courted her we find,
And seeming
love did shew,
Yet after all he prov'd unkind,
Which wrought
her overthrow.
Here do I languish in distress,
The youthful
damsel cried,
To see his most unfaithfulness,
All round on
every side:
I nothing see but clouds of grief;
And storms of
bitter woe,
It's death alone must yield relief,
Love proves my
overthrow.
False-hearted Thomas call to mind,
The solemn vows
you made,
That you would never prove unkind,
And can you now
degrade
Your loyal lover now at last,
And fill my
heart with woe,
Which will my life and glory blast,
And prove my
overthrow.
I courted was both day and night,
At length I
gave consent,
This done my love he straight did slight,
And leaves me
to lament;
As if he took delight to see
Mine eyes like
fountains flow,
Oh, most ungrateful man, said she,
Love proves my
overthrow.
Not long ago he did adore;
My very charms,
he cried,
Was ever man so false before,
In all the
world beside?
A harmless lover to deceive,
And drown in
tears of woe,
This world I am resolv'd to leave,
Love proves my
overthrow.
The killing torment that I feel,
Doth such a
passion raise,
That I no longer can conceal
The sorrows of
my days;
I'll hasten death this very day,
To ease my
heart of woe,
I find there is no other way,
Love proves my
overthrow.
Thus being fill'd with discontent,
She took a
bloody knife,
In desperate sort resolv'd and bent
To cut the
thread of life:
Down from her throat the reeking gore
In purple
streams did flow,
And though she lay a week and more.
It prov'd her
overthrow.
With grief and sorrow compass'd round,
She languish'd
night and day,
At length her fatal bleeding wound,
Did take her
quite away:
And all along before she died,
Her eyes with tears
did flow,
Likewise she wrung her hands and cried,
Love proves my
overthrow.
Farewell to him who is the cause
Of all my grief
and care,
Had he been true to Cupid's laws,
I solemnly
declare,
We might have liv'd in happiness,
In love and
peace I know;
But sorrows do my soul oppress,
And prove my
overthrow,
Though now at present he may have.
Content, and
pleasure find,
When I am sleeping in my grave,
He then will
call to mind.
Who caus'd this present wretched state,
And fill his
heart with woe,
And then he may repent too late
My dismal
overthrow.
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XLVII.
THE YOUNG
SEAMAN'S MISFORTUNE,
OR,
The
False-hearted Lass of Limehouse.
[From the
Pepys Collection.]
To the
tune of the Spinning-wheel. Licensed according to order.
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You loyal lovers far and near,
That live and
reign in Cupid's court,
I'd have you freely lend an ear,
While I my
sorrows do report:
She that I lov'd has left me o'er;
I'll never trust a woman more.
In her I plac'd my chief delight,
And was her
captive night and day;
For why? her charming beauty bright
Had clearly
stole my heart away:
But she will not my joys restore;
I'll never trust a woman more.
On board of ship I chanc'd to go,
To serve our
good and gracious king:
Now when she found it must be so.
She did her
hands in sorrow wring,
Yet wedded when I left the shore;
I'll never trust a woman more.
My dearest love, she often cry'd,
Forbear to sail
the ocean sea;
If fortune shall us now divide,
Alas! what will
become of me?
This she repeated ten times o'er!
I'll never trust a woman more.
A thousand solemn vows I made,
And she
return'd the like again,
That no one should our hearts invade,
But both in
loyal love remain;
Yet she another had in store!
I'll never trust a woman more.
I was obliged to leave the land,
And ready to go
hoist up sail,
At which tears, in her eyes did stand,
And bitterly
she did bewail;
Yet she another had in store!
I'll never trust a woman more.
I gave her then a ring of gold,
To keep in
token of true love,
And said, My dearest dear behold!
I evermore will
loyal prove.
She married when I left the shore!
I'll never trust a woman more.
Five months I ploughed the ocean main,
With courage
void of dread and fear;
At length with joy return'd again
To the embraces
of my dear.
But she another had in store!
I'll never trust a woman more.
Constancy doth torture me,
And make my
sorrows most severe;
Like a keen dart it pierc'd my heart,
For why? I did
the tydings hear,
As soon as e'er I came on shore!
I'll never trust a woman more.
Now must I wander in despair,
I find it is
the Fates' decree;
My grief is more than I can bear,
I can love none
alive but she:
Farewell, farewell, my native shore!
I'll never trust a woman more.
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XLVIII.
THE
PLEASANT HISTORY OF DORASTUS AND FAUNIA.
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INTO Bohemia dwelt a king,
Pandosto high,
to name:
He had a queen, Bellaria call'd,
Fair, beauteous,
and of fame.
He had a friend Egestus call'd,
A king of great
renown,
And for love of Pandosto he
Did leave his
land and crown.
And to Bohemia he did sail,
Pandosto for to
see:
Who with Bellaria, his queen,
Receiv'd him
royally.
Royall Bellaria lov'd her lord
Which her
constrain'd and mov'd.
To welcome his most noble friend,
Whom he most
dearly lov'd.
This King and Queen familiar growes,
Pandosto he
beholds
Bellaria with Egestus walk,
(Array'd in robes
of gold.)
Into the garden, hand in hand,
He sees them
sporting go,
Pandosto groweth jealous straight,
And turn'd
Egestus foe.
One Franion, his cup bearer,
He doth unto
him call:
And chargeth him with poyson strong
To make Egestus
fall.
Franion refus'd, but yet the king
With threats
did him ov'rset:
And with fair words, when he had done,
Promised to
make him great.
But Franion the cup bearer
This matter did
reveal;
And with Egestus secretly
Away by night
did steal;
Thinking it better were for him
Never to see
his king,
Than traitorously, without a cause,
To do so vile a
thing.
Pandosto's jealousie more burns,
When he saw
they were gone;
And for Bellaria he sent,
Who quickly to
him came.
And with wilde speeches in his ire,
His noble queen
blasphem'd:
And with the wilde name of a whore,
In his fierce
wrath her nam'd.
With speed he calls a parliament,
And her in
prison cast,
Intending till he took her life,
Therefore to
keep her fast.
It is her hap to be with child,
Which when the
king doth see,
Then more and more his wrath doth burn
In that mad
jealousie.
Still swearing his queen's life to have;
But here begins
the strife,
For all the parliament did seek
To
save
Bellaria's life.
He swears she and her child shall die,
His nobles all
before,
Go fetch, he says, to parliament,
That filthy
odious whore.
In vain thus with the King they strive,
Yet one brave
lord at last
Gives forth his vote to save the Queen,
And forth his
verdict past.
Send quickly post to Delphus Isle
To Apollo and
see,
And at that Oracle enquire
To know the
veritie.
And to this lord they all agreed,
And quickly
sent away
Men, who till they to Delphus came,
Posted both
night and day.
And having their devotions done,
Apollo cry'd at
last,
Bohemians that which ye find
Behind the
altar cast.
Take up: but do not look thereon,
Nor let no man
it see,
Till that ye both before the King
And parliament
shall be.
The scrol they took and posted home,
The King doth
them require,
To see the scrol, which he did think
Would satiate
his desire.
But they him told what charge they got,
When they did
it receive:
And also what instructions
Apollo to them
gave;
The parliament conveens, the King
From prison
brought the Queen:
Which was but newly brought to bed,
And was a woman
green;
Whose child the King caus'd take her from,
And said to
death put straight
That bastard brat, and let it not
Appear into my
sight.
The executioners abhor'd
So vile a cruel
deed:
And in a boat unto the sea,
They do it send
with speed.
Which neither sail nor ruther had,
Nor company therein,
And to seas fury they commit
It for to sink
or swim.
With trees branches an arbor made,
Therein a purse
of gold,
And with rich jewels, from the Queen,
This babe they
there uproll'd.
A storm arose, this little boat
Drives to
Egestus land,
shepherd, that was keeping sheep,
Doth find it on
the sand.
He looks upon the childs beautie,
Covered with
cloath of gold
The like his eyes did never see,
So glorious to
behold.
He surely thought it was a god,
And down he
kneeIs to pray:
But when the child began to cry,
He bore it
thence away.
The jewels and the gold he takes,
And calls the
child his own
And Faunia he doth her name,
Who grew a
beauteous one.
So that her fame came unto court,
The prince came
her to see.
Who having lookt this nymph upon,
Was ravisht
presently.
Dorastus was the prince's name.
Who with a full
intent,
Most earnestly did sue for love,
With thousand
complements.
With modest meekness she refus'd?
Saying she'd
love him dear,
If that she equall were with him,
Or he a
shepherd were.
At last the prince his father told,
But he right
furiously,
Says who's this entysde my son,
I vow that he
shall die.
This to prevent, the prince provides
A ship to save
their life;
And with one servant and his love,
The shepherd
and his wife:
To sea they go, and they arrive
In her own
father's land:
But let us of her mother speak,
Which doth in
judgment stand.
Apollo's answer to the King,
And all his
parliament;
Which to this purpose spake, was read,
Which made the
King lament.
Suspicion is no proof at all,
Jealousie
judgeth wrong:
Egestus and the Queen are chaste,
True Franion
did no wrong.
Treacherously Pandosto's guiltless babe;
Is sent unto
the sea,
And if she be not found again,
He without
child shall die.
With tears the King seeks to comfort
His royal
loving wife.
But before all the parliament,
In his armes
ends her life.
For brevitie I do omit,
To show how all
did mourn:
To Dorastus and Faunia,
I purpose to
return.
That beauteous couple privately,
Did pass their
time away;
The King took of her beauty heed,
For they near court
did stay.
The King with fair words, and with threats,
Did seek her
love to gain:
But constantly she him refus'd,
His sute was
all in vain.
In prison all the King them cast,
The shepherd
and his wife,
Dorastus, and fair Faunia,
Swearing to take her life.
The shepherd's first examined,
Whom of that
knight was come:
Who presently did plain confess,
He's King
Egestus son.
From prison then the King him brought,
And doth him
honour much:
The shepherd hath to prison sent,
And Faunia
forth do fetch.
Fair Faunia is now brought forth,
And doth in
judgment stand;
How dost thou whore entyse this prince,
Or in his
presence stand?
This spake the King 'twixt ire and lust,
And brought the
shepherd syne,
Which, fraught with fear of death, did
She is no child
of mine.
I found her in a little boat,
Her cloaths
I'le let you see;
And chain that was about her neck,
I have all here
by me.
Her chains and bracelets he did show,
To the King
presently:
Also the mantle with his armes,
Which on his
bed did ly.
Which when the King did all behold,
Remembering
what was past,
He presently gave them his crown,
And he to
cloister past.
Egestus to their wedding came,
And reconciled was
Unto Pandosto, who to him
Did cry full
oft, alace!
For my sweet Queen Bellaria fair,
And for this
sinful lust,
Which to my daughter I conceiv'd,
And for my
thoughts unjust.
To thee, my friend and neighbour true,
And for my sinful life,
To monastrie I now will go,
Till death
shall end my strife.
Royall Dorastus, and his Queen,
Without all
kind of strife,
Of both the lands receiv'd the crown,
After Egestus
life.
Judge all now of Bohemia's joy,
How every one
did sing
A joyful noise in every place,
Through all the
land did ring.
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XLIX.
DEATH OF IFFIDA.
From "The Romance of the History of Palmendos, son to
the most renowned Palmerin d'oliva." 1653.
"The mother and her daughter ran furiously on
Palmendos, labouring to do him what injury they could: but he (unwilling to
hurt them), suffered their violence, till Ozalioe's squire seeing their
impatience, and fearing with their knives they would in the end murder him,
took up ore of the guards hatchets, and therewith deprived the mother of her
life.
"Iffida extremely rabing at
this grievous spectacle, rent her hair from her head, and with her nails, most
cruelly martyred her face; then being suddenly surprised with a raging apoplexy,
she presently died without using any more speeches. The Page grieving to behold
this woeful accident, determined not to live any long er after her; but first
upon the wail he wrote certain dolorous verses, which afterward were converted
to a funeral ditty, in this manner:"
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DEAD is the bud of beauty's chief delight,
The fairest flower on whom the sun did shine,
The choice belov'd of many a famous knight,
The pride of honour, precious and divine:
The lovely maid
of whom the nymphs did sing,
That nature never fram'd so rare a thing.
Had Paris seen this wondrous piece of art,
Proud Venus had not carried beauty's prize,
Pallas and Juno would have stood apart,
To see their gifts one virgin royalize:
In every point
surpassing curious,
Had fate and fortune been as gracious.
Ungentle star, that domineer'd the day,
When first my lady mistress breath'd this air,
What angry object stood then in the way,
To cross the course that was begun so fair!
You lowring
heavens, why did ye oppress
The saint whom
you so many ways did bless!
But, wretch! why stand'st thou charging these with guilt,
And art thyself the author of this ill?
Thou hapless boy thy lady's blood hast spilt,
Thy master and his servants thou didst kill.
When first thou
travell'dst for this trothless man,
Even in that
hour these miseries began.
But, sovereign Love, immortal and divine;
Whose gracious name did shadow this abuse,
Canst thou permit before thy holy eyn,
This heinous deed exempt from all excuse?
O mighty Love,
what will thy subjects say;
If foul offence
go unrevenged away?
Stand I expostulating this or that,
When on my back the weighty burthen lies;
Waste no more time with vain and idle chat,
But for this fault be thou a sacrifice.
Fair Iffida,
thy page doth follow thee,
The only engine
of this tragedy.
|
L.
ROSSALIND'S DITTY.
from "The Famous Historie of the Seaven Champions of
Christendome."
"During which time faire Rossalinde (one of the
daughters of the Thracian King, being
as then prisoner in the Castle) by chance looked over the walls, and espyed the
body of the Gyant headlesse, under whose subjection shee had continued in
great servitude for the time of seaven moneths, likewise by him a knight unarmed,
as shee thought panting for breath, the which the lady judged to be the knight
that had slaine the Gyant Blanderon, and the man by whom her delivery should be
recovered, shee presently descended the walles of the castle, and ran with all
speed to the adventurous champion, whom shee found dead. But yet being nothing
discouraged of his recovery, feeling as yet a warme bloud in every member,
retired back with all speede to the castle, and fetcht a boxe of precious
balme, the which the Gyant was wont to poure into his wounds after his
encounter with any Knight; with which balme this courteous lady chafed every
part of the breathlesse champion's bodie, one while washing his stiffe lims
with her salt teares the which like pearles fell from her eyes, another while
drying them with the tresses of her golden hayre, which hung dangling in the
winde, then chafing his livelesse body againe with a balme of a contrary
nature, but yet no signe of life could shee espie in the dead Knight: which
caused her to grow desperate of all hope of his recoverie. Therefore like a
loving, meeke, and kinde ladie, considering he had lost his life for her sake,
shee intended to beare him company in death, and with her owne hands to finish
up her dayes, and to dye upon his breast as Thisbe died upon the brest of her
true Pyramus; therefore as the swanne sings a while before her death, so this
sorrowful lady warbled forth this swan-like son; over the bodie of the noble
champion."
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MUSES come mourn with doleful melody,
Kind Sylvan Nymphs that sit in rosy bowers,
With bracking tears commix your harmony
To wail with me both minutes, days, and hours.
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.
Dead is the Knight for whom I live and die,
Dead is the Knight which for my sake is slain,
Dead is the Knight for whom my careful cry,
With wounded soul for ever shall complain,
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.
I'll lay my breast upon a silver stream,
And swim unto Elysium's lilly fields;
There in ambrosian trees I'll write a theme
Of all the woeful sighs any sorrow yields.
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.
Farewell, fair woods, where sing the nightingales,
Farewell, fair fields, where feed the light-foot does,
Farewell, you groves, you hills and flowery dales,
But fare thou ill, the cause of all my woes:
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.
Ring out my ruth, you hollow eaves of stone,
Both birds and beasts with all things on the ground:
You senseless trees, be assistant to my moan,
That up to heaven my sorrows may resound.
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.
Let all the towns of Thrace ring out my knell,
And write in leaves of brass what I have said,
That after ages may remember well,
How Rossalind both liv'd, and died a maid:
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To case my heart a while before I die.
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