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From London to Winchester, and
To Cornewalle tooke his flyght.

And still I him pursued with speed
Till at the last wee mett:
Wherby an appointed day of fight
Was there agreed and sett.

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In honor and great fame;

And thus by death was suddenlye

Deprived of the same.

V 92, feates. MS.

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VI.

A Byttie to Hey Downe.

Copied from an old MS. in the Cotton library, [Vesp. A. 25,] entitled "Divers things of Hen. viij's time."

WHO sekes to tame the blustering winde,
Or causse the floods bend to his wyll,
Or els against dame nature's kinde

To'change' things frame by cunning skyll:

That man I thinke bestoweth paine,

Thoughe that his laboure be in vaine.

Who strives to breake the sturdye steele,
Or goeth about to staye the sunne;
Who thinks to causse an oke to reele,

Which never can by force be done:
That man likewise bestoweth paine,
Thoughe that his laboure be in vaine.

Who thinks to stryve against the streame,
And for to sayle without a maste;
Unlesse he thinks perhapps to faine,

His travell ys forelorne and waste;

And so in cure of all his paine,
His travell ys his cheffest gaine.

Ver. 4, causse. MS.

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So he lykewise, that goes about
To please eche eye and every eare,
Had nede to have withouten doubt

A golden gyft with him to beare ;
For evyll report shall be his gaine,
Though he bestowe both toyle and paine.

God grant eche man one to amend;

God send us all a happy place;

And let us pray unto the end,

That we may have our princes grace:

Amen, amen! so shall we gaine

A dewe reward for all our paine.

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VII.

Glasgerion.

An ingenious friend thinks that the following old ditty (which is printed from the Editor's folio MS.) may possibly have given birth to the Tragedy of The Orphan, in which Polidore intercepts Monimia's intended favours to Castalio.

See what is said concerning the hero of this song, (who is celebrated by Chaucer under the name of Glaskyrion,) in the Essay prefixed to vol. i., note (H), part iv. (2.)

GLASGERION was a kings owne sonne,

And a harper he was goode:

He harped in the kings chambere,

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Faire might he fall, ladye, quoth hee,
Who taught you nowe to speake!

I have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeere
My minde I neere durst breake.

But come to my bower, my Glasgeriòn,

When all men are att rest:

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As I am a ladie true of my promise,

Thou shalt bee a welcome guest.

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Home then came Glasgèrion,

A glad man, lord! was hee.

And, come thou hither, Jacke my boy;

Come hither unto mee.

For the kinges daughter of Normandye

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Hath granted mee my boone:

And att her chambere must I bee
Beffore the cocke have crowen.

O master, master, then quoth hee,
Lay your head downe on this stone:
For I will waken you, master deere,

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