This merry jest you must excuse, You are but a stingless nettle : You'd never have stood for boots or shoes, 135 Had you been a man of mettle. 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. 140 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, 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. 155 Then faining penitence and feare, Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare, 160 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. 170 Over the moate I've laid a plank Full seventeen feet in measure : Then step a-cross to the other bank, 175 And there we'll take our pleasure. These words she had no sooner spoke, The plank was saw 'd, it snapping broke; And sous'd the unhappy lover. R 3 180 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? 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. 5 10 The devil take her! 15 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 century; the third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within the eighteenth 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 Complete 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. FORTH from my sad and darksome cell, Feares and cares oppresse my soule; Through the world I wander night and day In an angrye moode I mett old Time, With his pentarchye of tenses: 5 10 |