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poems in manuscript, which may or may not have been by the same author. At all events, the three stanzas are there inserted, and I copied them out for the sake of comparison with the two stanzas assigned to Nash in the Intro
duction to “Pierce Penniless." They may be thought worth printing in the Papers of the Shakespeare Society, connected as they are with one of its recent publications: I therefore transcribe them, observing merely that the original MS. is decidedly of the latter end of the reign of Elizabeth. They have no title, nor any signature or other mark of authorship at the end, but run thus :
“I see my hopes must wither in the budde ;
Farewell judgement, with invention
Farewell all in one togither,
“And if any graces live
As, with all their woes they have,
Then wold I crye, weepe, sythe, and ever mone,
Prayse blyndnes (eyes) for seeinge is deceyte ; Be dumbe, vayne tounge, wordes are but flatteryng wyndes; Breake harte and bleed, for there is no receyt To purge inconstancy from most mens myndes. And so I wak’t amaz'd, and could not move: I knowe my dreame was true, and yett I love."
These stanzas follow each other exactly as I have copied them, but it seems to me doubtful whether the last be not a fragment of some other poem in which the writer fancies himself dreaming : I cannot but feel persuaded that I have read it somewhere else. Whether the lines are by Nash, or Breton, or by some other poet of the time, I cannot pretend to determine. Perhaps some member of the Shakespeare Society will be able to decide the point, and will convey the information to me in the next publication of its Papers.
Art. XIX.–Ballad, illustrative of a passage in “ The Taming
of the Shrer." In “ The Taming of the Shrew," act ii., sc. 1, occur the following lines :
* We will have rings, and things, and fine array;
And, kiss me, Kate, We will be married o' Sunday.”
It has always seemed to me, and perhaps to some others, that the lines were either quoted or adapted from some ballad of the time; and, several years since, an old gentleman, of the name of Wilson, who had, I believe, been a printer in York, gave me the copy of a ballad, which he had put in type, and which he informed me he had received in his youth from a very ancient relative. Mr. Wilson was at that date more than seventy years old, and I understood that his aunt, who was his authority, was considerably older when she recited the ballad to him. This would carry back the production about one hundred and forty years, and I have no doubt that it is considerably older, and possibly the very production alluded to by Petruchio. Be this
Be this as it may, the Shakespeare Society will probably think the relic worth preserving in some way, considering the nature of the burden of it, and its resemblance to the exclamation of Petruchio, “ We will be married o' Sunday," when, in fact, that does not appear to have been the day on which he intended to be united to Katherine. However, the reader will be able to judge for himself.
I'M TO BE MARRIED O' SUNDAY.
As I walk'd forth one May morning,
We will be married o' Sunday.
I said, pretty maiden, sing not so,
you must tarry seven years or mo,
All to be married o' Sunday.
Kind sir, quoth she, you have no skill ;
That I'll be married o' Sunday.
Next Saturday night 'twill be my care
When I come to be married o' Sunday.
Then to the church I shall be led
For I'm to be married o' Sunday.
Then on my finger I'll have a ring,
Because I am married o' Sunday.
And in the church I must kneel down
Then the bells shall ring so merry and loud ;
Though I was married o' Sunday.