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$59. Ole to Leven Water. SMOLLET.
Stili on thy banks, fo gaily green,
$90. Songe to Alla, Lorde of the Caftel of Brylowe yane daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, under the name of RowLEY.
OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee,
Whanne Dacya's fonnes, whofe hayres of bloude[ing due,
Drawne bie thyne anlace felle,
And neighe to be amenged the poyntedd speers
Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att refte)
Or whare thou kennft from farre
Or fecft fomme mountayne made of corfe of fleyne;
§ 91. Briftowe Tragedie, or, The Dette of Charles Bardin.
CHATTERTON, under the name of RowLEY. THE featherd fongfter chaunticleer Had wounde hys bugle horne, And told the carlie villager The commynge of the morne ;
Kynge Edwarde fave the rudie ftreakes
"Thou 'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the Godle, "That fyttes enthron'd on hyghe, "Charles Bawdin, and his fellowes twaine, "To-daie fhall furelie die."
Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale
His Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite; "Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie
"Hee leaves thys mortall state." Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe; Hee journey'd to the caftle-gate,
And to Syr Charles dydd goe.
Lyche kynge-cuppes braftynge wythe the morn-O
Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets fhore;
But whenne hee came, his children twaine,
goode Syr Charles !" fayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."
Speke boldiie, manne," fayd brave Syr Charles, "Whatte fays thie traytour kynge?"
"I greeve to telle: Before yonne fonne "Does fromme the welkinne five,
Hee hath uponne hys honour fworne "Thatt thou thalt furelie dic."
Wee all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Of thatte I'm not affearde:
"What bootes to lyve a little space? "Thanke Jefu, I'm prepar'd.
Thenne Maisterr Canynge faugthe the kynge, And felle down onne hys knee;
< I'm come," quod hee, " unto your grace
"To move your clemencye."
Thenne quod the kynge, "Your tale fpeke out, "Saye why, my friend, thie honest foul
"You have been much oure friende;
My nobile liege! all my request Ys for a nobile knyghte, “Who, tho' may hap he has donne wronge, "He thoghte ytte ftylle was ryghte: "Hee has a fpoufe and children twaine, "Alle rewyn'd are for aie; "Yff thatt you are refolv'd to lett "Charles Bawdin die to daie." "Speke nott of fuch a traytour vile," The kynge ynne fury fayde;
Before the ev'ning ftarre doth fheene, "Bawdin fhall loofe hys hedde: "Juftice des loudlie for hym calle,. "And hee hall have hys meede:
Speke, Maifter Canynge! whatte thynge elfe "Att prefent doc you neede ?"
My nobile licge !" goode Canynge fayde, "Leave juftice to our Godde, And laye the yronne rule alyde; "Be thyne the olyve rodde.
"We all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne? "Dethe ys the fure, the certaine fate "Of all wee mortall menne.
With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
And teares beganne to flowe.
Runns overr att thyne eye; "Is ytte for my moft welcome doome "Thatt thou doft child-lyke crye?"
"I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
"And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
"The hungrie fromme my doore:
"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 Hefhe I dydd refrayne; "Whie fhould I thenne appeare difimay'd "To leave thys woride of payne? "Ne hapless Henrie I rejoyce,
"I fhalle ne tee thye dethe; "Mofte willinglie in tlave juft caufe "Doe I refiga my brethe.
"Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe!
"Thou wilt kenne peace ne moe;
"Thatt you dydd choppe your eafie daies
“Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, "And ne ryche monument of braffe
"Charles Bawdin's name fhall bear; "Yet ynne the holie booke above,
"Whyche tyme can't eate awai, "There wythe the fervants of the Lorde Mye name fhall lyve for aic. "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 c'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 flie."
And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,
Sweet Florence! why thefe brinie teeres? "Theye wafhe my foule awaie, And almost 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! "My herte ys welle nyghe broke: "Ah, fweete Syr Charles why wylt thou gee, Wythoute thye lovynge wife! "The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, "Ytt eke fhall ende mye lyfe."
His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. "Sweet Florence! nowe I praic forbere, "Ynne quiet lett mee die; "Praic Godde, that ev'ry Clariftian foule 'Maye looke onne dethe as I.
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 thould dethe thee take-adieu! "Yee officers, lead onne."
Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,
"Oh! ftaie, my husbande! lorde! and lyfe!" Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
Tyll tyredd oute wyth ravynge loud,
And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Lookes, thatt enfhoone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the frete.
The Freers of Seincte Auguftyne next
Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie pfaume
Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde,
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 longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,
Lyke mee, untoe the true caufe ftycke,
3 Complexion. 4 Water-flags. 8 Armed, pointed. 9 Hoifted on high, raised. 13 Stretched. 14 Like. 15 Two. 16 19 Clofely. 20 Mantled, covered. 21 Guides.
$93. Chorus in Goddwyn, a Tragedie. CHATTERTON, &c.
WHAN Freedom, drefte yn blodde-fteyzed
To everie knyghte her warre-forge furge, Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spreadt; 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 her bofome to acale 6 ; She hearde onflemed 7 the fhriekynge voice of woe, And fadneffe vnne the owlette thake the dale. She thooke the burled & fpeere, On hie the jefte 9 her fheelde, 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 starre, Alyche14 twaie15brendeyng 16 gronfyres 17 rols hys eyes,
Chaftes iS with hys yronne feete, and foundes to
Hys feeric heaulme 24 noddynge to the ayre, T'enne bloddie arrowes ynne his ftreynynge fyfe
$94. Grongar Hill.