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“ Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, Thou wearest nowe a crowne;
And rounde the scaffolde twyne; And hast appoynted mee to die,
And teares, enow to washe't awaie, By power nott thyne owne.
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne. “ Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie;
The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre I have beene dede till nowe,
Ynnto foure partes cutte; And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, For aie uponne my browe:
Uponne a pole was putte. “ Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares,
One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
One onne the mynster-tower, To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule
And one from off the castle-gate 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:
The crowen dydd devoure: “ Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave!
The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, Shall falle onne thye owne hedde”—
A dreery spectacle; Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge
Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, Departed thenne the sledde.
Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile. Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face,
Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate: Hee turn'd his hedde awaie,
Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And to hys broder Gloucester
And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Hee thus dydd speke and saie:
Ynne Heav'n Godde's mercie synge! “ To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe
Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,
O! synge untoe mie roundelaie, “ Soe lett hym die!” Duke Richarde sayde;
0! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, “ And maye ech one oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee; And feede the carryon crowes.”
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe; As uppe a gilded carre
dedde, Of victorye, bye val’rous chiefs
Gon to hys death-bedde, Gayn’d ynne the bloudie warre:
Al under the wyllowe tree. And to the people hee dyd saie :
Swote hys tongue as the throstles note, “ Beholde you see mee dye,
Quycke ynn daunce as thought canve bee, For servynge loyally mye kynge,
Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote, Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: “ As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,
Mie love ys dedde, Ne quiet you wylle knowe:
Goune to hys death-bedde, Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,
Al under the wyllowe tree. And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, “ You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge,
In the briered delle belowe; Whenne ynne adversitye;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
To the nyghte-mares as beie goe; And for the true cause dye.”
Mie love ys
Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Most seemlie onne the blocke;
y's dedde, Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
Gon to lays death-bedde, The able heddes-manne stroke:
Al under the wyllow tree.
Heere uponne mie true love's grave,
Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Nee on hallie seyncte to save
Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne, Al the celness of a mayde.
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. Mie love ys dedde,
Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllow tree.
Al under the wyllowe tree. Wythe my hondes I'll dente the brieres
Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Hleere mie bodie still schalle bee.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.
Old Arthur's board: on the capacious round
TO THE RIVER LODON.
Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,
THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT. 1746.
When now mature in classic knowledge,
Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated,
When nine full tedious winters past,
6. These fellowships are pretty things,
Too fond of freedom and of ease
Continuing this fantastic farce on,
Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel,
Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,
When calm around the common room And—but on Sundays-hears no bells;
I puff’d my daily pipe's perfume ! Sends presents of his choicest fruit,
Rode for a stomach, and inspected, And prunes himself each sapless shoot;
At annual bottlings, corks selected: Plants cauliflow'rs, and boasts to rear
And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under The earliest melons of the year;
The portrait of our pious founder! Thinks alteration charming work is,
When impositions were supply'd Keeps bantam cocks, and feeds his turkies;
To light my pipe-or soothe my prideBuilds in his copse a fav’rite bench,
No cares were then for forward peas, And stores the pond with carp and tench.
A yearly-longing wife to please; But ah! too soon his thoughtless breast
My thoughts no christ’ning dinners crost, By cares domestic is opprest;
No children cry'd for butter'd toast; And a third butcher's bill, and brewing,
And ev'ry night I went to bed, Threaten inevitable ruin:
Without a modus in my head !" For children fresh expenses yet,
Oh! trifling head, and fickle heart ! And Dicky now for school is fit.
Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art; “ Why did I sell my college life
A dupe to follies yet untry'd, (He cries) for benefice and wife?
And sick of pleasures scarce enjoy'd ! Return, ye days! when endless pleasure
Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases, I found in reading, or in leisure !
And in pursuit alone it pleases.
I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own. The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell
These vallies and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.
Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
O share Maria's grief!
Assassined by a thief.
And though by nature mute,
Of flagelet or flute.
His bosom of the hue,
To sweep up all the dew.
No cat had leave to dwell;
Large-built and latticed well.
For Bully's plumage sake, But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, With which, when neatly peeled and dried,
The swains their baskets make. Night veiled the pole. All seemed secure. When led by instinct sharp and sure,
Subsistence to provide,
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report
Of a land, I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.