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ye those theves, then sayd our kyng, That men have tolde of to me?

Here to God I make an avowe,

Ye shall be hanged all thre.
Ye shal be dead without mercy,
As I am kynge of this lande.
He commandeth his officers every one,
Fast on them to lay hande.

There they toke these good yemen,
And arrested them all thre:
So may I thryve, said Adam Bell,
Thys game lyketh not me.
But, good lorde, we beseche you now,
That yee graunt us grace,
Insomuche as frelè to you we comen,
As frelè fro you to passe,
With such weapons as we have here,
Tyll we be out of your place;
And yf we lyve this hundreth yere,
We wyll aske you no grace.
Ye speake proudly, sayd the kynge;
Ye shall be hanged all thre.

That were great pity, then said the quene,
If any grace myght be.

My lorde, when I came fyrst into this lande wedded wyfe,

To be


The fyrst boone that I wold aske,
Ye wold graunt it me belyfe :

And I never asked none tyll now;

Then, good lorde, graunt it me.
Now ask it, madam, said the kynge,
And graunted it shall be.

Then, good my lord, I you beseche,
These yemen graunt ye me.
Madame, ye myght have asked a boone
That should have been worth them all three.

Ye myght have asked towres and townes,
Parkes and forests plentè;

But none soe pleasant to my pay, shee sayd;
Nor none so lefe to me.

Madame, sith it is your desire,

Your asking graunted shal be; But I had lever have geven you Good market townes thre. The quene was a glad woman, And sayde, Lord, gramarcyè; I dare undertake for them

That true men they shal be.

But, good my lord, speke some mery word,
That comfort they may se.

I graunt you grace, then sayd our kyng,
Washe, felos, and to meate go ye.
They had not setten but a whyle

Certayne without lesynge,
There came messengers out of the north
With letters to our kyng.

And whan they came before the kynge,
They knelt downe on theyr kne;
Sayd, Lord, your officers grete you well,
Of Carleile in the north cuntrè.

How fareth my justice, sayd the kyng,

And my sherife also?

Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge,
And many an officer mo.

Who hath them slayne? sayd the kyng:
Anone thou tell to me.

Adam Bell, and Clim of the Clough,

And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.

Alas for rewth! then sayd our kynge,
My hart is wonderous sore;

I had lever than a thousande pounde,
I had known of thys before;
For I have graunted them grace,
And that forthynketh me:
But had I knowen all thys before,
They had been hanged all thre.
The kyng he opened the letter anone,
Himselfe he read it thro',

And founde how these outlawes had slaine
Thre hundred men and mo:

Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe,

And the mayre of Carleile towne;
Of all the constables and catchipolles,
Alyve were scant left one.

The baylyes and the bedyls both,
And the sergeaunte of the law,
And forty fosters of the fe,

These outlawes had yslaw.

And broke his parks, and slayne his dere ;
Of all they chose the best;
So perelous outlawes as they were,
Walked not by easte or west.
When the kyng this letter had red,
In harte he syghed sore:
Take up the tables anone, he bad,
For I may eat no more.

The kyng called hys best archars,
To the buttes with him to go:

I wyl see these felowes shote, he sayd,
In the north have wrought this wo.
The kynges bowmen busket them blyre,
And the quenes archers also:
So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen;
With them they thought to go.

There twise or thryse they shote about,
For to assay theyr hande;

There was no shote those yemen shot
That any prycke myght stand.

Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslè ·
By him that for me dyed,

I hold him never no good archar,
That shoteth at buttes so wyde.
"At what a butte now wold ye shote,
I pray thee tell to me?"
At such a but, syr, he sayd,

As men use in my countrè.
Wyllyam went into a fyeld,

With his two bretherène :
There they set up two hasell roddes,
Full twenty score betwene.

• Mark.

I hold him an archar, said Cloudeslè,
That yonder wand cleveth in two.
Here is none suche, sayd the kyng,
Nor none that can so do.

I shall assaye, sir, sayd Cloudesly,
Or that I farther go.
Cloudesly with a bearying arowe
Clave the wand in two.

Thou art the best archer, then said the king,
For sothe, that ever I see.
And yet for your love, sayd Wyllyam,

I wyll do more mastery.

I have a sonne is seven yeare olde,
He is to me full deare;
I wyll hym tye to a stake;

All shall se, that be here;
And lay an apple upon hys head,

And go syxe score hym fro,
And I my selfe with a broad aròw
Shall cleave the apple in two.
Now haste the, then said the king;
By hym that dyed on a tre,
But yf thou do not as thou hast sayde,
Hanged shalt thou be.

An thou touche his head or gowne,
In syght that men may se,
By all the sayrites that be in heaven,
I shall hange you all thre.
That I have promised, said Wyllyam,
That wyll I never forsake.
And there even before the kynge

In the earth he drove a stake:

And bound thereto his eldest sonne,

And bad hym stand styll thereat;
And turned the childes face him fro,
Because he should not sterte.
An apple upon his head he set,

And then his bowe he bent;
Syxe score paces they were out mete,
And thether Cloudeslè went.

There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe,
Hys bowe was great and longe;
He set that arrowe in his bowe,

That was both styffe and stronge.
He prayed the people that wer there,
That they all still wold stand,
For he that shōteth for such a wager
Behoveth a sted fast hand.

Much people prayed for Cloudeslè,
That his lyfe saved myght be;
And whan he made him redy to shote,
There was many a weeping ee.
But Cloudeslè cleft the apple in twaine,
His sonne he did not nee.
Over Gods forebode, sayde the kynge,
That thou shold shote at me.

I geve thee eightene pence a day,
And my bowe shalt thou bere,
And over all the north countrè,
I make the chyfe rydère.

And I thyrtene pence a day, said the quene,

By God and by my fay;

Come feche thy payment when thou wylt,
No man shall say the nay.

Wyllyam, I make the a gentleman
Of clothyng, and of fe:

And thy two breathren, yemen of my chambre,
For they are so semely to se.

Your sonne, for he is tendre of age,

Of my wyne-seller he shall be:
And when he cometh to man's estate,
Shall better avaunced be.

And, Wyllyam, bring to me your wife,
Me longeth her sore to se;
She shall be my chefe gentlewoman,
To govern my nurserye.

The yemen thanketh them courteously:
To some bishop wyl we wend,
Of all the synnes that we have done,
To be assoyl'd at his hand.

So forth be gone these good yemen,
As fast as they might be;

And after came and dwelled with the kynge,
And dyed good men all three.

Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen,
God send them eternal blysse;

And all that with a hand-bowe shoteth,
That of heaven they never mysse. Amen.

§ 106. Song. Willow, willow, willow. It is from the following stanzas that Shakspeare has taken his song of the Willow in his Othello, A. 4. s. 3. though somewhat varied, and applied by him to a female character. He makes Desdemona introduce it in this pathetic and affecting manner:

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My mother had a maid call'd Barbarie;

She was in love; and he she lov'd forsook her, And she prov'd mad. She had a song of Willow; An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune: And she dyed singing it."

A POOR Soule sat sighing under a sicamore tree, O willow, willow, willow!

With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee;

O willow, willow, willow!

O willow, willow, willow!

Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland! He sighed in his singing, and after each grone, O willow, &c.

I am dead to all pleasure, my true-love is gone; O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

My love is turned; untrue she doth prove:
O willow, &c.

She renders me nothing but hate for my love.
O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

O pitty me (cried he) ye lovers, each one;
O willow, &c.

Her heart's hard as marble,she rues not my mone.
O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

The cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept | Qwillow, willow, willow! the willow garland,

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O willow, &c.

A signe of her falsenesse, before me doth stand:
O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

As here it doth bid to despaire and to dye,
O willow, &c.

The mute birds sat by him, made tame by his So hang it, friends, ore me in grave where I lye.


O willow, &c.

O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

The salt tears fell from him, which softened In grave where I rest mee, hang this to the view,

the stones.

O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

Let nobody blame me, her scornes I do prove:
O willow, &c.

She was borne to be faire; I to die for her

O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

O willow, &c.

Of all that doe know her, to blaze her untrue.
O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

With these words engraven, as epitaph meet,
O willow, &c.

"Here lyes one drank poyson for potion most
O willow, &c.

O that beauty should harbour a heart that's so Sing, O the greene willow, &c.


O willow, &c.

My true love rejecting without all regard.
O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

Let Love no more boast him in palace or bower;

O willow, &c.

For women are trothles, and flote in an houre.
O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

But what helps complaining? In vain I complain:

O willow, &c.

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Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

The name of her sounded so sweet in mine care,
O willow, &c.

I must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine. It rais'd my heart lightly, the name of my deare,

O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

Come, all you forsaken, and sit down by me;
O willow, &c.

He that plaines of his false love, mine's falser

than she.

O willow, &c.

Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

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The willow wreath weare I, since my love did Farewell, faire false-hearted: plaints end with

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He sent his man unto her then,

To the town where shee was dwellin; You must coine to my master deare, Giff your name be Barbara Allen. For death is printed on his face, And ore his harte is stealin: Then haste away to confort him,

O lovely Barbara Allen.

Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin :
Yet little better shall he bee
For bonny Barbara Allen.
So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him;
And all she sayd, when there she came,
Young man, I think y're dying.

· He turn'd his face unto her strait,
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my death-bed lying.
If on your death-bed you doe lye,


What needs the tale
are tellin?
I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.
He turned his face unto the wall,

As deadly pangs he fell in:
Adieu. adieu! adieu to all!
Adieu to arbara Allen!

As she was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bells a knellin;
And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.

She turned her bodye round about,

And spied the corpse a coming; Laye down, laye down the corps, she sayd, That I may look upon him.

With skornful eye she looked downe,

Her cheek with laughter swellin;
Whilst all her friends cryed out amaine,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.

When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe.
O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall dye to-morrowe.
Hard-harted creature, him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:

O that I had been more kind to him,
When he was alive and neare me!
She, on her death-bed as she laye,
Beg'd to be buried by him;
And sore repented of the daye
That she did ere denye him.
Farewell, she said, ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in;
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.

§ 108. The Frolicksome Duke, or the Tinker's good Fortune.

The following ballad is upon the same subject as the Induction to Shakspeare's Taming of the Shrew:

whether it may be thought to have suggested the hint to the dramatic poet, or is not rather of later date, the reader must determine.

The story is told of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy; and is thus related by an old English writer: "The said Duke, at the marriage of Eleonora, sister to the King of Portugall, at Bruges, in Flanders, which was solemnized in the deepe of winter; when as by reason of unseasonable weather he could neither hawke nor bunt, and was now tired with cards, dice, &c. and such other domestic sports, or to see ladies dance; with some of his courtiers, he would in the evening walke disguised all about the towne. It so fortuned, as he was walking late one night, he found a country fellow dead drunke, snorting on a bulke; he caused his followers to bring him to his palace, and there stripping him of his old clothes, and attyring him after the court fashion, when he awakened, he and they were all ready to attend upon his excellency, and persuade him that he was some great duke. The poor fellow, admiring how he came there, was served in state all day long. after supper, he saw them dance, heard musicke, and all the rest of those court-like pleasures: but late at night, when he was well tippled, and again faste asleepe, they put on his old robes, and so conveyed him to the place where they first found him. Now the fellow had not made them so good sport the day before, as he did now, when he returned to himself: all the jest was to see how he looked upon it. In conclusion, after some little admiration, the poor man told his friends he had seen a vision; constantly believed it; would not otherwise be persuaded, and so the jest ended." Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, pt. 2. sect. 2. memb. 4. 2d ed. 1624, fol.

Now as fame does report, a young duke keeps a court, [sport: One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome But among all the rest, here is one I protest, Which will make you to smile when you hear [ground, A poor tinker he found lying drunk on the As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. The duke said to his men, William, Richard,

the true jest.

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Though he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,

Which he straitways put on without longer dispute; [eyed, With a star on each side, which the tinker oft And it seem'd for to swell him no little with pride; [wife? For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.

From a convenient place the right duke his good grace

Did observe his behaviour in every case.
To a garden of state on the tinker they wait,
Trumpets sounding before him; thought he,
This is great:
Where an hour or two pleasant walks he did
With commanders and squires in scarlet and

A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests;

He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
In a rich chair or bed, lined with fine crimson

With a rich golden canopy over his head :
As he sat at his meat the music play'd sweet,
With the choicest of singing, his joys to com-

While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
Rich canary and sherry, and tent superfine.
Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his

Till at last he began for to tumble and roll From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping

did snore,

Being seven times drunker than ever before.

Then the duke did ordaine, they should strip him amain,

And restore him his old leather garments again: 'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, [him at first; And they carried him straight where they found Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; [flight. But when he did waken his joys took their

For his glory to him so pleasant did seem, That he thought it to be but a mere golden dream; [he sought Till at length he was brought to the duke, where For a pardon, as fearing he'd set him at nought; But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade,

Such a frolic before I think never was play'd.

Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloke, [joke; Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome Nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of ground: [round, Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries Crying, Old brass to mend; for I'll be thy good friend,

Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.

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$109. Song. Death's final Conquest. These fine moral stanzas were originally intended for a solemn funeral song in a play of James Shirley's intitled, The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses. Shirley flourished as a dramatic writer early in the reign of Charles I. but he outlived the Restoration. His death happened Oct. 23, 1666, æt. 72. It is said to have been a favourite song with King Charles II. THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked sithe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last inust yield,
They tame but one another still.

Early or late

And must give up their murmuring breath,
They stoop to fate,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds: Upon death's purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come
To the cold tomb:

Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom, in the dust.

§ 110. Song. SMOLLETT.
To fix her, 'twere a task as vain
To count the April drops of rain,
To sow in Afric's barren soil,
Or tempests hold within a toil.

I know it, friend, she's light as air,
False as the fowler's artful snare,
Inconstant as the passing wind,
As winter's dreary frost unkind.
She's such a miser too in love,
Its joys she'll neither share nor prove;
Though hundreds of gallants await
From her victorious eyes their fate.
Blushing at such inglorious reign,
I sometimes strive to break my chain;
My reason summon to my aid,
Resolve no more to be betray'd.

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