Once more I'll pardon thee this day,
Tho' injur'd out of measure;
But then prepare without delay
To yield thee to my pleasure.'

'Well then, if I must grant your suit, Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir: Let me pull off both spur and boot,

Or else you cannot stir, sir.'

He set him down upon the grass,
And begg'd her kind assistance:

110

115

'Now,' smiling thought this lovely lass,

'I'll make you keep your distance.'

120

Then pulling off his boots half-way;
'Sir knight, now I'm your betters:
You shall not make of me your prey;
Sit there like a knave in fetters.'

The knight when she had served soe,
He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled:
For he could neither stand nor goe,
But like a cripple tumbled.

'Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten,

Yet do not move nor stir, sir:

I'll send you my father's serving men,
To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.

This merry jest you must excuse,

You are but a stingless nettle:

125

130

You'd never have stood for boots or shoes,
Had you been a man of mettle.'

135

All night in grievous rage he lay,
Rolling upon the plain-a;

Next morning a shepherd past that way,
Who set him right again-a.

Then mounting upon his steed so tall,
By hill and dale he swore-a:

'I'll ride at once to her father's hall;
She shall escape no more-a.

I'll take her father by the beard,
I'll challenge all her kindred;

Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;

My wrath shall no more be hindred.'

He rode unto her father's house,

Which every side was moated: The lady heard his furious vows, And all his vengeance noted.

140

145

150

Thought shee, 'sir knight, to quench your rage,

Once more I will endeavour:

This water shall your fury 'swage,

Or else it shall burn for ever.'

Then faining penitence and feare,
She did invite a parley:

'Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare,
Henceforth I'll love you dearly.

My father he is now from home,
And I am all alone, sir:

Therefore a-cross the water come;

And I am all your own, sir.'

155

160

I scorn the treacherous bait-a:

If thou would'st have me thee believe,
Now open me the gate-a.'

The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd,
My father he has the keys, sir.
But I have for my love prepar'd
A shorter way and easier.

Over the moate I've laid a plank

Full seventeen feet in measure:

Then step a-cross to the other bank,

And there we 'll take our pleasure.'

These words she had no sooner spoke,
But strait he came tripping over:
The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke;
And sous'd the unhappy lover.

170

175

180

**

XVI.

WHY SO PALE?

From Sir John Suckling's Poems. This sprightly knight was born in 1613, and cut off by a fever about the 29th year of his age. See above, Song IX. of this Book.

WHY SO pale and wan, fond lover?

Prethee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prethee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prethee why so mute?

10

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing doe 't?

Prethee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame; this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her.

The devil take her!

XVII.

OLD TOM OF BEDLAM.

MAD SONG THE FIRST.

It is worth attention, that the English have more songs and ballads on the subject of madness, than any of their neighbours. Whether there be any truth in the insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers; we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of French, Italian Songs, &c.

Out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a dozen mad songs for these volumes. The three first are originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the three last is chiefly that of imitation. They were written at considerable intervals of time; but we have here grouped them together, that the reader may the better examine their comparative merits. He may consider them as so many trials of skill in a very peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals to shoot in the bow of Ulysses. The two first were probably written about the beginning of the last [17th] century; the third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within this present century.

This is given from the Editor's folio MS. compared with two or three old printed copies. With regard to the author of this old rhapsody, in Walton's Compleat Angler, cap. 3, is a song in praise of angling, which the author says was made at his request by Mr William Basse, one that has made the choice songs of the Hunter in his career, and of Tom of Bedlam, and many others of note,' p. 84. See Sir John Hawkins's curious Edition, 8vo. of that excellent old book.

1 Some explain this fact on the ground, that after the dissolution of the religious houses, the poor were reduced to beggary, and to wander through the country in those disguises thought best fitted to excite pity and to escape detection. Of these, the disguise of madness was found the most effectual - ED.

155

10

5

10

15

FORTH from my sad and darksome cell,
Or from the deepe abysse of hell,
Mad Tom is come into the world againe
To see if he can cure his distempered braine.

Feares and cares oppresse my soule;
Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle!
Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd
To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.

Through the world I wander night and day

To seeke my straggling senses,

In an angrye moode I mett old Time,
With his pentarchye of tenses:

Cold and comfortless I lye: Helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye! Harke! I heare Apollo's teame, The carman 'gins to whistle; Chast Diana bends her bowe,

The boare begins to bristle.

Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackles,
To knocke off my troublesome shackles;
Bid Charles make ready his waine

To fetch me my senses againe.