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"And none can faye, butt all mye lyfe

"I have hys wordyes kept; "And fumi'd the actyonns of the daie "Eche nyghte before I flept. "I have a spouse, goe afke of her

"Yff I defyl'd her bedde? "I have a kynge, and none can laie "Blacke treason one my hedde. "Ynne Lent. and onne the holie eve, "Fromm Hethe I dydd refrayne; "Whie fhould I thenne appeare difinay'd "To leave thys woride of payne? "Ne hapless Henrie I rejoyce, "I fhalle ne lee thye dethe; "Mofte willinglie in thave just cause "Doe I refigu my brethe. "Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe ! "Thou wilt kenne peace ne moe; "Whyle Richard's fonnes exalt themselves, "Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. "Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,

"And godiie Henric's reigne, "Thatt you dydd choppe your eafic daies

"For thofe of bloude and peyne? "Whatte tho' I onne a fledde bee drawne, "And mangled by a hynde, "I do defye the traytour's pow'r, "Hee can ne harm my mynde; "Whatte tho', uphoifted onne a pole,

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Mye lymbes fhall rotte ynne ayre, "And ne ryche monument of braffe "Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; "Yet ynne the holie booke above,

"Whyche tyme can't eate awai,
"There wythe the fervants of the Lorde
"Mye name thall lyve for aie.
"Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne
"I leve thys mortall lyfe ;

"Farewell, vayne worlde, and alle that's deare,
"Mye fonnes and lovynge wyfe!
"Now dethe as welcome to mee comes,

"As e'er the month of Maie;
"Nor woulde I even wythe to lyve,
"Wyth my dere wyfe to ftaie."
Quod Canynge, "Tys a goodlie thynge
"To bee prepar'd to die;

And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe
"To Godde ynne heaven to die."
And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,

And claryonnes to founde;
Syr Charles hee herde the horses fecte
A-prauncying onne the grounde
And jufte before the officers,

His lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Wcepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dyfmalle dynne.
"Sweet Florence! nowe I praic forbere,
"Ynne quiet lett mee dic;

"Praic Godde, that ev'ry Clariftian foule

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Maye looke onne dethe as 1.

Sweet Florence! why thefe brinie teeres?
"Theye wathe my foule awaie,
And almoft make mee wythe for lyfe,
"With thee, fweete dame, to ftaie.
"Tys but a journie I fhalle goe
"Untoe the lande of blyffe;

"Nowe, as a proofe of hufbande's love,
"Receive thys holie kyffe.”

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her faie,
Tremblynge thefe wordyes fpoke,

Ah, crue e Edwarde! bloudie kynge!

66

My herte ys welle nyghe broke:

"Ah, fweete Syr Charles' why wylt thou gee, Wythoute trye lovynge wife!

"The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, "Ytt eke shall ende mye lyfe."

And nowe the officers came ynne

To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Who turnedd toe his lovynge wyfe,
And thus toe her dydd faie:

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

"Trufte thou ynne Godde above, "And teache thye fonnes to feare the Lorde, "And ynne theyre hertes hym love:

"Teache them to runne the nobile race

"Thatt I theyre fader runne:

"Florence! fhould dethe thee take-adieu ! "Yee officers, lead onne.'

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Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,

And dydd her tresses tere;

"Oh! ftaic, my. husbande! lorde! and lyfe !"
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
'Tyll tyredd oute wyth ravynge loud,

Shee fellen onne the flore;

Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a fledde hee mounted thenne,

Wythe lookes fulle brave and fwete ;
Lookes, thatt enfhoone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the frete.
Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynne fearlette robes and golde,
And taffils fpanglynge ynne the funne,
Muche glorious to beholde :

The Freers of Seincte Auguftyne next
Appeared to the fyghte,

Alle cladd ynne homelie ruffett weedes,
Of godlie monkyfh plyghte:

Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie pfaume
Mofte fweetlie theye dydd chaunt;

Behynde theyre backes fyx mynftrelles caine,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From refcue of kynge Henries friends
Syr Charles forr to defend.

Bold as a lyon came Syr Charles,

Drawne onne a clothe-layde fledde,
Bye two blacke ftedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:

Behynde

3

Behvnde hum five-and-twentye moe

Of archers ftronge and ftoute,
With bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route:
Seinte Jameses Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behvnde thèvre backes fvx mynttrelles came,
Who tun'd the ftrunge bataunt:

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Yone clothe of fearlett deckt;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke Easterne princes trickt :

And after them a multitude

Of citizens dvdd thronge;
The wyndowes were all full of heddes,
As lice dydd paffe alonge.

And whenne hee came to the heghe croffe,
Syr Charles dydd turne and flie,

“ O Thou, thatt favest manne fromme fynne,
"Washe mye foule clean thys daie.”
Att the grete mynfter windowe fat
The kynge ynne mycle state,
To fee Charles Bawdin goc alonge
To hys most welcom fate.

Soon as the fledde drewe nyghe enowe,
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,

The brave Svr Charles hee dydd ftande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare:
"Thou feelt mee, Edwarde! traytour vile!
"Expos'd to infamie;

But be affur'd, diiloyall manne! “I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee. "Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, "Thou weareft nowe a crowne; "And haft appoynted mee to dye, "By power nott thyne owne. "Thou thynkeft I fhall dye to-daie; "I have beenc dede 'till nowe, "And foone thall lyve to weare a crowne "For aie uponne iny browe:

"Whylft thou, perhapps for fome few yeares,
"Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
"To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule
"'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:
"Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour flave!
"Shall falle onne thy owne hedde."
Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge
Departed thenne the fledde.

Kynge Edwarde's foule rufh'd to hys face;
Hee turn'd his head awaic,
And to hys broder Gloucester

Hee thus dydd fpeke and faic:

"To him that foe-much-dreaded dethe "Ne ghaftlie terrors brynge,

Beholde the manne! hee ipake the truthe, "Hee's greater than a kynge!"

So lett hym die!" Duke Richard fayde; "And maye echone our foes "Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie exe, "And feede the carryon crowes." And now the horfes gentlie drewe Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle! The exe dydd glyfterr ynne the funne, Hys pretions bloude to fpylle. Syr Charles dydd uppe the fcaffold goe, As uppe a gilded carre

Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs
Gayn'd in the bloudie warre:

And to the people hee dydd faie,
"Beholde you fee mee dye

"For fervynge loyally mye kynge,

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Mye kynge moft rightfullie.

"As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, "Ne quiet you wylle knowe;

Your fonnes and husbandes fhall be flayne, "And brookes wythe bloude fhalle Bowe. "You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, "Whenne ynne adverfitye;

"Lyke mee, untoe the true caufe ftycke,
And for the true caufe dye."

Thenne hce, wyth preeftes, uponne his knees,
A pray r to Godde dydd make,
Befcechynge hym unto hymfelfe

Hys partynge foule to take.

Then kneelynge downe, he layd hys heede
Moft feemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne ftroke!
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the fcaffolde twyne;
And teares, enow to wathe 't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.
The bloudie exe hys bodie fayre

Ynnto foure parties cutte;
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde,
Uponne a pole was putte.

One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynfter-tower,
And one from off the caftle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure:

The other onne Seynete Powle's goode gate,
A dreery fpectacle;

Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe croffe,
Ynne hyghe-ftreete most nobile.

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate:
Godde profper long our kynge,
And grant hee may, wyth Bawdin's foule,
Ynne heaven Godd's mercie fynge!

$92. The Mynfirelles Songe in Alla, a Tra gycal Enterlude. CHATTERTON, &c. Synge untoe my roundelaie,

O droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Daunce ne moe atte hallie daic, Lycke a reynynge i ryver bec.

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Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Black hys cryne 2 as the wyntere nyght,
Whyte hys rode 3 as the fommer fnowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tongue as the throftles note,
Quycke ynne daunce as thought cann bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle ftote,

O hee lys bie the wyllowe tree.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered dell belowe;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe fynge,
To the nyghte-mares as theie gee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Sce! the whyte moone fheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves throude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Heere, upon mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie feynete to fave
Al the celnefs of a mayde.

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hondes I'll dent the brieres
Rounde hys hallie corfe to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie boddie ftille fchalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I fcorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feafte by daie.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Water wytches, crownede wythe reytes 4,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damfelle spake, and dyed.

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§ 93. Chorus in Godddwyn, a Tragedie. CHATTERTON, &c.

WHAN Freedom, drefte yn blodde-fteyaed

vette,

To everie knyghte her warre-forge funge, Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were fpredde; A gorie anlace by her honge.

She daunced onne the heathe;

She hearde the voice of deathe;
Pale-eyned Affryghte, hys harte of fylver hue,
In vayne affayled 5 her bofome to acale 6;
She hearde onflemed 7 the fhriekynge voice of wie,
And fadneffe vnne the owlette thake the dale.
She thooke the burled & fpeere,

On hie the jefte 9 her theelde,
Her foemen 10 all appere,

And flizze 11 along the feelde,

Power, wythe his heafod 12 ftraught 13 ynto the

fkyes,

Hys fpeere a fonne-beame, and his fhcel de a ftarre, Alyche14 twaie15brendcyng 16 gronfyres 17 rol

hys eyes,

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Chaftes iS with hys yronne feete, and foundes to
She fyttes upon a recke,
She bendes before hys fpeere,
She ryfes from the shocke,
Wieldyng her own yn ayre.

crowne,

Harde as the thonder dothe the drive ytte on, Wytte fcillye 19 wympled 20 gies 21 ytte to hys [ys ge, Hys longe fharpe fpeere, hys fpreddyng thec.ce He falles, and fallynge rolleth thoufandes down. War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld 22,

arift 23,

Hys feerie heaulme 24 noddynge to the avre, Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne his ftreynynge fyfe—

DYER.

$94. Grongar Hill. SILENT Nymph! with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Bevond the noise of bufy man, Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet fings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the foreft with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy fifter Mufe. Now, while Phoebus riding high, Gives luftre to the land and fky, Grongar Hill invites my fong, Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar! in whofe moffy cells, Sweetly mufing Quiet dwells; Grongar! in whofe filent fhade, For the modeft Mufes made,

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9 Hoifted on high, raised. 14 Like. 15 Two. 20 Mantled, covered. 21 Guides.

8 Armed, pointed. 13 Stretched. 19 Clofely.

11 Fly.

17 Meteors.

18

22 Armed. 23 Arofe.

7 Undifmayed.

12 Head.

Beats, ftamps. 24 Helmet.

So

So oft I have, the evening ftill,
As the fountain of a rill,

Sat upon a flow'ry bed,

With my hand beneath my head,

While ftray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,

From houfe to houfe, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd fides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind;
And groves and grottos, where I lay,
And viftos fhooting beams of day.
Wide and wider ipreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their fummits from the skies,
And leffen as the others rise.
Still the profpect wider fpreads,
Adds a thoufand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens ftill,
And finks the newly-rifen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landicape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours, intervene;
But the gay, the open fcene
Does the face of Nature fhew
In all the hues of heaven's bow;
And, fwelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the fight.

Old cattles on the cliffs arife,
Proudly tow'ring in the fkies;
Rufhing from the woods, the fpires
Seem from hence afcending fires:
Half his beams Apollo theds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trecs unnumber'd rife,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the fable yew:
The flender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-fpread boughs;
And, beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phillis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the op'ning dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, fteep and high,
Holds and charms the wand'ring cye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood;
His fides are cloth'd with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That caft an awful look below;
Whofe ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps:
So both a fafety from the wind
On mutual dependance find.

'Tis now the raven's bleak abode, 'Tis now th' apartment of the toad; And there the fox fecurely feeds, And there the pois'nous adder breeds, Conceal'd in ruins, mofs, and weeds; While, ever and ano, there falls Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.

Yet time has feen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has feen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state:
But tranfient is the fmile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,

A fun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And fee the rivers, how they run
Thro' woods and meads, in fhade and fun!
Sometimes fwift, fometimes flow,
Wave fucceeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human Efe, to endlefs fleep!
Thus is Nature's vefture wrought,
To inftruct our wand'ring thought;
Thus the dreffes green and gay,
To diferfe our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the land'cape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody vallies, warm and low;
The windy fummit, wild and high,
Roughly rufhing on the sky!
The pleafant feat, the ruin'd tow'r,
The naked rock, the fhady bow'r;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's fouthern fide,
Where the profpect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How clofe and fmall the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A ftep, methinks, may pals the ftream,
So little diftant dangers feem:
So we mistake the future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass.
As yon fummits foft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the fame coarse way;
The prefent 's ftill a cloudy day.

O inay I with myself agree,
And never covet what I fce!
Content me with a humble fhade,
My paffions tam'd, my wifhes laid;
For while our withes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the foul:
'Tis thus the bufy beat the air,
And mifers gather weaith and care.
Now, c'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr fings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the fhepherd charms his fheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with mufic fill the fky,
Now, e'en now, my joys run high.
Be full, ye courts! be great who will;
Search for peace with all your skili,

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Open

Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor:
In vain ye fearch, fhe is not there;
In vain ye fearch the domes of Care!
Grafs and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleafure clofe allied,
Ever by each other's fide;
And often, by the murm'ring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is ftill,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

$95.

A Monody on the Death of bis Lady.
By GEORGE Lord LYTTELTON.

Ipfe cava folans aegrum teftudine amorem,

Te, dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum,

Te veniente die, te decedente can bat.'

AT length efcap'd from ev'ry human eye,
From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a fhare,
Or force my tears their flowing ftream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring fhade,
This lone retreat, for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my flores of grief;
Of grief furpaffing every other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happieft love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'erfhadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
But never fhall you now behold her more:
Nor will the now, with fond delight,
And tafte refin'd, your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endless night,
Thofe beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to fhine
Reafon's pure light, and Virtue's fpark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of thefe woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;

For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing,
The fweeteft fongfters of the spring;
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more:
The nightingale was mute,
And ev'ry fhepherd's flute
Was caft in filent fcorn away,
While all attended to her fweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets, now refume your fong:
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell;
For death has ftopp'd that tuneful tongue,
Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes excel
In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground,
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to defcry;
Where oft we us'd to walk;

Where oft in tender talk

We faw the fummer fun go down the sky;

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Can aught of her elpy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie,
O fhades of Hagley, where is now your boaft?
Your bright inhabitant is loft.

You the preferr'd to all the gay reforts
Where female vanity might with to thine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modeft beauties thunn'd the public eye:
To your fequetter'd dales

And flower-embroider`d vales,

From an admiring world the chofe to fly.
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The filent paths of wifdom trod,

And banish'd every paffion from her breaft;
But thofe, the gentleft and the best,
Whole holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

Sweet babes! who like the little playful fawns
Were wont to trip along thefe verdant lawns,
By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now your infant fteps fhall guide?
Ah! where is now the hand, whofe tender care
To every virtue would have form'd your youth,
And ftrow'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of
truth?

O lofs beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone,

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How fhall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with
And, drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, [wœe,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe,

Now the, alas! is gone,
From folly and from vice their helpless age to fave!

Where were ye, Mufes, when relentless Fate
From thefe fond arms your fair difciple tore;
From thefe fond arms, that vainly strove
With hapless, ineffectual love,

To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?
Could not your favouring pow'r, Aönian
maids,

Could not, alas! your pow'r prolong her date;
For whom fo oft, in thefe infpiring shades,
Or under Camden's mofs-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your facred ftore;
Whate'er your ancient fages taught,
Your ancient bards fublimely thought,
And bade her raptur'd breast with all your fpirit
glow?

Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount, your fteps derain,
Nor in the Thefpian valleys did you play ;
Nor then on Mincio's bank *
Befet with offers dank,

The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.

Nor

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