Be 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. There they toke these good yemen, That were great pity, then said the quene, My lorde, when I came fyrst into this lande wedded wyfe, To be your The fyrst boone that I wold aske, And I never asked none tyll now; Then, good lorde, graunt it me. Then, good my lord, I you beseche, Ye myght have asked towres and townes, But none soe pleasant to my pay, shee sayd; 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, I graunt you grace, then sayd our kyng, Certayne without lesynge, And whan they came before the kynge, How fareth my justice, sayd the kyng, And my sherife also? Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge, Who hath them slayne? sayd the kyng: Adam Bell, and Clim of the Clough, And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè. Alas for rewth! then sayd our kynge, I had lever than a thousande pounde, And founde how these outlawes had slaine Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe, And the mayre of Carleile towne; The baylyes and the bedyls both, These outlawes had yslaw. And broke his parks, and slayne his dere ; The kyng called hys best archars, I wyl see these felowes shote, he sayd, There twise or thryse they shote about, There was no shote those yemen shot Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslè · I hold him never no good archar, As men use in my countrè. With his two bretherène : • Mark. I hold him an archar, said Cloudeslè, I shall assaye, sir, sayd Cloudesly, Thou art the best archer, then said the king, I wyll do more mastery. I have a sonne is seven yeare olde, All shall se, that be here; And go syxe score hym fro, An thou touche his head or gowne, In the earth he drove a stake: And bound thereto his eldest sonne, And bad hym stand styll thereat; And then his bowe he bent; There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe, That was both styffe and stronge. Much people prayed for Cloudeslè, I geve thee eightene pence a day, And I thyrtene pence a day, said the quene, By God and by my fay; Come feche thy payment when thou wylt, Wyllyam, I make the a gentleman And thy two breathren, yemen of my chambre, Your sonne, for he is tendre of age, Of my wyne-seller he shall be: And, Wyllyam, bring to me your wife, The yemen thanketh them courteously: So forth be gone these good yemen, And after came and dwelled with the kynge, Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen, And all that with a hand-bowe shoteth, § 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: 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: She renders me nothing but hate for my love. Sing, O the greene willow, &c. O pitty me (cried he) ye lovers, each one; Her heart's hard as marble,she rues not my mone. Sing, O the greene willow, &c. The cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept | Qwillow, willow, willow! the willow garland, O willow, &c. A signe of her falsenesse, before me doth stand: Sing, O the greene willow, &c. As here it doth bid to despaire and to dye, The mute birds sat by him, made tame by his So hang it, friends, ore me in grave where I lye. mones: O willow, &c. O 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: 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. Sing, O the greene willow, &c. With these words engraven, as epitaph meet, "Here lyes one drank poyson for potion most O that beauty should harbour a heart that's so Sing, O the greene willow, &c. hard! O willow, &c. My true love rejecting without all regard. 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. Sing, O the greene willow, &c. But what helps complaining? In vain I complain: O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c. The name of her sounded so sweet in mine care, 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; He that plaines of his false love, mine's falser than she. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c. The willow wreath weare I, since my love did Farewell, faire false-hearted: plaints end with 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, · He turn'd his face unto her strait, you What needs the tale As deadly pangs he fell in: As she was walking ore the fields, 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; When he was dead, and laid in grave, O that I had been more kind to him, § 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. 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. A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests; He was plac'd at the table above all the rest, With a rich golden canopy over his head : While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, 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. $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; Must tumble down, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; Early or late And must give up their murmuring breath, Then boast no more your mighty deeds: Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor victim bleeds. Only the actions of the just § 110. Song. SMOLLETT. I know it, friend, she's light as air, |