Still the fairest are his fuell, When his daies are to be cruell; And his baths their warmest bloud: Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Not a kisse but poyson beares; Idle minutes are his raigne ; Then the straggler makes his gaine, To have all childish as himselfe. If by these yee please to know him, XVI.-THE KING OF FRANCE'S DAUGHTER.* "THE story of this ballad seems to be taken from an incident in the domestic history of Charles the Bald, King of France. His daughter Judith was betrothed to Ethelwulph, King of England; but before the marriage was consummated, Ethelwulph died, and she returned to France, whence she was carried off by Baldwyn, Forester of Ilanders, who, after many crosses and difficulties, at length obtained the king's consent to their marriage, and was made Earl of Flanders. This happened about A.D. 863.-See Rapin, Henault, and the French historians." So writes the bishop; but this account is not true to history, as Judith married Ethelwulph with her father's consent and went to England with him. He died two years afterwards, and Judith married his son Ethelbert, which caused great public disapprobation, and a separation was effected. After this, Judith returned to her father's court and eloped with Baldwin, Grand Forester of France. Eventually the king became reconciled to this marriage, Baldwin was made Count of Flanders, and their daughter Matilda married William the Conqueror. The following copy is given from the Editor's ancient folio MS., collated with another in black letter in the Pepys Collection, entitled An excellent Ballad of a prince of England's courtship to the king of France's daughter, etc. To the tune of 'Crimson Velvet." IN the dayes of old, When faire France did flourish, Storyes plainc have told, Lovers felt annoye. The queene a daughter bare, Whom beautye's queene did nourish : She was lovelye faire, She was her fathers joye. But he was exil'd, and outcast: Shee granted his desire, Their hearts in one were linked fast. And tormented in his minde. * Given in folio as In the Days of Old. When these princes twaine Were thus barr'd of pleasure, Through the kinges disdaine, Which their joyes withstoode : The lady soone prepar'd Her jewells and her treasure: Having no regard For state and royall bloode; In homelye poore array To meet her joye and hearts delight; Who in a forrest great Had taken up his seat, To wayt her coming in the night. Chanced, as he sate alone! The princesse, arm'd by love, Within echoes call,- Harbouring my hearts delight; My trustye friend, and comelye knight. Sweete, I come unto thee, Sweete, I come to woo thee; That thou mayst not angry bee For my long delaying; For thy curteous staying Soone amendes Ile make to thee. Passing thus alone Through the silent forest, Many a grievous grone Sounded in her eares: With that a grone he sends Which did burst in sunder Of his gentle heart. At his wordes did wonder; Did to griefe convert. Strait she ran to see, Who this man shold bec, That soe like her love did seeme: Her lovely lord she found Lye slaine upon the ground, Smear'd with gore a ghastlye streame. Which his lady spying, Shrieking, fainting, crying, Her sorrows could not uttered bee: Fate, she cryed, too cruell: For thee-my dearest jewell, Would God! that I had dyed for thee. His pale lippes, alas! Twentye times she kissed, And his face did wash With her trickling teares: Every gaping wound Tenderlye she pressed, And did wipe it round With her golden haires. Speake, faire love, quoth shee, Speake, faire prince, to mee, One sweete word of comfort give: Lift up thy deare eyes, Listen to my cryes, Thinke in what sad griefe I live. The prince's life was fled and gone. And bright day was coming on. In this great distresse Weeping, wayling ever, Oft shee cryed, alas! What will become of mee? To my fathers court I returne will never : But in lowlye sort I will a servant bee. In this deepe and deadlye feare: Ranging the woods did find her Moved with her sorrowe, Maid, quoth hee, good morrowe, What hard happ has brought thee here? Harder happ did never Two kinde hearts dissever : Here lyes slaine my brother deare. Where may I remaine, Gentle for'ster, shew me, 'Till I can obtaine A service in my neede? Paines I will not spare: This kinde favour doe mec, It will ease my care; Heaven shall be thy meede. The for'ster all amazed, On her beautye gazed, Till his heart was set on fire. If, faire maid, quoth hee, You shall have your hearts desire. He sett forth his maidens praise. And fortune crown'd his future dayes. Thus unknowne he wedde Ere she told her birth. Humblye he besought her, He to the world might shew Her rank and princelye worth. He cloath'd his children then (Not like other men), In partye-colours strange to see : The right side cloth of gold, The left side to behold, Of woollen cloth still framed hee.* Men thereatt did wonder; Golden fame did thunder This strange deede in every place: The king of France came thither, It being pleasant weather, In those woods the hart to chase. This will remind the reader of the livery and device of Charles Brandon, a private gentleman, who married the Queen-dowager of France, sister of Henry VIII. At a tournament which he held at his wedding, the trappings of his horse were half cloth of gold, and half frieze, with the following motto: "Cloth of gold, do not despise, Tho' thou art matcht with cloth of frize; Tho' thou art matcht with cloth of gold." See Sir W. Temple's Miscellany, vol. iii. p. 356. |