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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.

* 40

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 too 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.






This little moral poem was writ by Sir HENRY WOTTON, who died Provost of Eaton in 1639. Æt. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, entitled BELIQUIE WOTTONIANE, 1651, 12mo; compared with one or two other copies.

How happy is he born or taught,

That serveth not anothers will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his highest skill:

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death;

Not ty'd unto the world with care

Of princes ear, or vulgar breath:

Who hath his life from rumours freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat :
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruine make oppressors great:

Who envies none, whom chance doth raise,
Or vice: Who never understood



How deepest wounds are given with praise; 15
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertaines the harmless day

With a well-chosen book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or feare to fall;
Lord of himselfe, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.




was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the last century, if we may credit the histories and story-books of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing Cardinal Richlieu, Oliver Cromwell, &c. But these stories have probably no other authority than the records of Grub-street: At least the GILDEROY, who is the hero of Scottish Songsters, seems to have lived in an earlier age; for, in Thompson's Orpheus Caledonius, vol. ii. 1733, 8vo. is a copy of this ballad, which, though corrupt and interpolated, contains some lines that appear to be of genuine antiquity: in these he is represented as contemporary with Mary Q. of Scots: ex. gr.

"The Queen of Scots possessed nought,
"That my love let me want:

"For cow and ew to me he brought,
"And ein whan they were scant."


These lines perhaps might safely have been inserted among the following stanzas, which are given from a written copy, that appears to have received some modern corrections. Indeed the common popular ballad contained some indecent luxuriances that required the pruning-hook.

GILDEROY was a bonnie boy,
Had roses tull his shoone,
His stockings were of silken soy,

Wi' garters hanging doune :
It was, I weene, a comelie sight,
To see sae trim a boy;

He was my jo and hearts delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! sike twa charming een he had,

A breath as sweet as rose;

But costly silken clothes;

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He never ware a Highland plaid,

He gain'd the luve of ladies gay,

Nane eir tull him was coy:

Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day


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