Reliques of ancient English poetry, by T. Percy

When all was handsomly dispos'd,
She prayes them to have care
That nothing hap in their default,
That might his health impair :

And, Damsell, quoth shee, for it seemes
This houshold is but three,
And for thy parents age, that this

Shall chiefely rest on thee;

Do me that good, else would to God
He hither come no more.

So tooke she horse, and ere she went
Bestowed gould good store.

Full little thought the countie that

His countesse had done so ; Who now return'd from far affaires Did to his sweet-heart go.

No sooner sat he foote within

The late deformed cote,

But that the formall change of things
His wondring eies did note.

But when he knew those goods to be

His proper goods; though late, Scarce taking leave, he home returnes The matter to debate.

The countesse was a-bed, and he
With her his lodging tooke;

Sir, welcome home (quoth shee); this

night

For you I did not looke.

Then did he question her of such
His stuffe bestowed soe.
Forsooth, quoth she, because I did
Your love and lodging knowe :

Your love to be a proper wench,
Your lodging nothing lesse ;
I held it for your health, the house
More decently to dresse.

Well wot I, notwithstanding her,
Your lordship loveth me;
And greater hope to hold you such
By quiet, then brawles, you see.

Then for my duty, your delight,
And to retaine your favour,
All done I did, and patiently

Expect your wonted 'haviour.

Her patience, witte and answer wrought
His gentle teares to fall:

When (kissing her a score of times)

Amend, sweet wife, I shall :

He said, and did it; "so each wife
Her husband may" recall.

VII.-DOWSABELL.

THE following stanzas were written by Michael Drayton,* a poet of some eminence in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. They are inserted in one of his pastorals, and are inscribed with the author's name at length, "To the noble and valerous gentleman master Robert Dudley," etc.

FARRE in the countrey of Arden,
There won'd a knight, hight Cassemen,

As bolde as Isenbras:

Fell was he, and eger bent,
In battell and in tournament,

As was the good Sir Topas.

He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabel,
A mayden fayre and free:
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was y-cond the leyre
Of mickle curtesie.

*Drayton was born in 1563, and died in 1631.

The silke well couth she twist and twine, And make the fine march-pine,

And with the needle werke:

And she couth helpe the priest to say
His mattins on a holy-day,

And sing a psalme in kirke.

She ware a frock of frolicke greene,
Might well beseeme a mayden queene,
Which seemly was to see;

A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
Y-wrought full featously.

Her features all as fresh above,

As is the grasse that growes by Dove;
And lyth as lasse of Kent.

Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on Peakish Hull,
Or swanne that swims in Trent.

This mayden in a morne betime
Went forth, when May was in her prime,
To get sweete cetywall,

The honey-suckle, the harlocke,
The lilly and the lady-smocke,

To deck her summer hall.

Thus, as she wandred here and there, Y-picking of the bloomed breere,

She chanced to espie

A shepheard sitting on a bancke, Like chanteclere he crowed crancke, And pip'd full merrilie.

He lear'd his sheepe as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,

To feede about him round;
Whilst he full many a carroll sung,
Untill the fields and medowes rung,
And all the woods did sound.

In favour this same shepheards swayne Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,*

Which helde prowd kings in awe :

* Alluding to Tamburlaine the Great, or the Scythian Shepheard, 1590, 8vo, an old ranting play ascribed to Marlowe,

But meeke he was as lamb mought be; An innocent of ill as he

Whom his lewd brother slaw.

The shepheard ware a sheepe-gray cloke, Which was of the finest loke,

That could be cut with sheere: His mittens were of bauzens skinne, His cockers were of cordiwin,

His hood of meniveere.

His aule and lingell in a thong,
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,
His breech of coyntrie blewe :

Full crispe and curled were his lockes,
His browes as white as Albion rocks;
So like a lover true,

And pyping still he spent the day,
So merry as the popingay;

Which liked Dowsabel :

That would she ought, or would she nought, This lad would never from her thought;

She in love-longing fell.

At length she tucked up her frocke,
White as a lilly was her smocke,
She drew the shepheard nye;
But then the shepheard pyp'd a good,
That all his sheepe forsooke their foode,
To hear his melodye.

Thy sheepe, quoth she, cannot be leane,
That have a jolly shepheards swayne,

The which can pipe so well: Yea but, sayth he, their shepheard may, If pyping thus he pine away

In love of Dowsabel.

Of love, fond boy, take thou no keepe,
Quoth she; looke thou unto thy sheepe,
Lest they should hap to stray.
Quoth he, So had I done full well,
Had I not seen fayre Dowsabell

Come forth to gather maye.

With that she gan to vaile her head, Her cheeks were like the roses red, But not a word she sayd:

With that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
And on the ground him layd.

Sayth she, I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer-hall undight,

And all for long of thee.

My coate, sayth he, nor yet my foulde
Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,
Except thou favour mee.

Sayth she, Yet lever were I dead,
Then I should lose my mayden-head,
And all for love of men.
Sayth he, Yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot finde
To love us now and then,

And I to thee will be as kinde

As Colin was to Rosalinde,

Of curtesie the flower.
Then will I be as true, quoth she,

As ever mayden yet might be
Unto her paramour.

With that she bent her snow-white knee,

Downe by the shepheard kneeled shce,

And him she sweetely kist:

With that the shepheard whoop'd for joy;

Quoth he, Ther's never shepheards boy

That ever was so blist.

VIII. THE FAREWELL TO LOVE,

From Beaumont and Fletcher's play, entitled The Lover's Progress, Act iii. Sc, i.

ADIEU, fond love, farewell you wanton

powers;

I am free again.

Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours,
Bewitching pain,

Fly to fools, that sigh away their time:
My nobler love to heaven doth climb,
And there behold beauty still young,

That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy,

Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung,

And honoured by eternity and joy : There lies my love, thither my hopes aspire,

Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher.

IX. ULYSSES AND THE SYREN

AFFORDS a pretty poetical contest between Pleasure and Honour. It is found at the end of Hymen's Triumph: A Pastoral Tragicomedie, written by Daniel, and printed among his works, 4to, 1623.-Daniel, who was a contemporary of Drayton's, and is said to have been poet laureate to Queen Elizabeth, was born in 1562, and died in 1619. Anne, Countess of Dorset, Pembroke, and Montgomery (to whom Daniel had been tutor), has inserted a small portrait of him in a full-length picture of herself, preserved at Appleby Castle, in Cumberland,

COME, worthy Greeke, Ulysses come,
Possesse these shores with me,

The windes and seas are troublesome,
An here we may be free.

SYREN.

Here may we sit and view their toyle,

That travaile in the deepe,

Enjoy the day in mirth the while,

And spend the night in sleepe.

X.-CUPID'S PASTIME.

THIS beautiful poem, which possesses a classical elegance hardly to be expected in the age of James I., is printed from the 4th edition of Davidson's Poems, etc, 1621. It is also found in a later miscellany, entitled Le Prince d'Amour, 1660, 8vo.Francis Davison, editor of the poems above referred to, was son of that unfortunate secretary of state who suffered so much from the affair of Mary Queen of Scots. These poems, he tells us in his preface, were written by himself, by his brother [Walter], who was a soldier in the wars of the Low Countries, and by some dear friends "anonymoi."

IT chanc'd of late a shepherd swain,

That went to seek his straying sheep, Within a thicket on a plain

Espied a dainty nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o'erspred her face; Her careless arms abroad were cast; Her quiver had her pillows place;

Her breast lay bare to every blast.

The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill; Nought durst he do; nought durst he say;

Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will, Did guide the god of love that way.

The crafty boy that sees her sleep,

Whom if she wak'd he durst not see; Behind her closely seeks to creep,

Before her nap should ended bee.

There come, he steals her shafts away, And puts his own into their place; Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace. Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,

And spies the shepherd standing by : Her bended bow in haste she takes,

And at the simple swain lets flye.

Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, That to the ground he fell with pain: Yet up again forthwith he start,

And to the nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to see so strange a sight,

She shot, and shot, but all in vain ; The more his wounds, the more his might, Love yielded strength amidst his pain. Her angry eyes were great with tears,

She blames her hand, she blames her
skill;

The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.
Take heed, sweet nymph, trye not thy shaft,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart:
Alas! thou know'st not Cupids craft;
Revenge is joy; the end is smart.

Yet try she will, and pierce some bare;

Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,

That made the shepherd senseless stand. That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast

Love found an entry to her heart; At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord! how this gentle nymph did start? She runs not now; she shoots no more; Away she throws both shaft and bow: She seeks for what she shunn'd before,

She thinks the shepherds haste po slow.

Though mountains meet not, lovers may :
What other lovers do, did they :

The god of love sate on a tree,
And laught that pleasant sight to see.

See the full tile in vol. ii. Book iii. No iv.

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