That she no company would mind,
Who were to vanity inclin'd.

Mean while Ulysses fought for fame,
'Mongst Trojans hazarding his life:
Young gallants, hearing of her name,

Came flocking for to tempt his wife :
For she was lovely, young, and fair,
No lady might with her compare.

With costly gifts and jewels fine,
They did endeavour her to win;
With banquets and the choicest wine,
For to allure her unto sin :
Most persons were of high degree,
Who courted fair Penelope.

With modesty and comely grace

Their wanton suits she did denye:
No tempting charms could e'er deface
Her dearest husband's memorye ;
But constant she would still remain,
Hopeing to see him once again.

Her book her dayly comfort was,
And that she often did peruse;
She seldom looked in her glass;
Powder and paint she ne'er would use.
I wish all ladies were as free
From pride, as was Penelope.

She in her needle took delight,

And likewise in her spinning-wheel; Her maids about her every night Did use the distaff, and the reel : The spiders, that on rafters twine, Scarce spin a thread more soft and fine.

Sometimes she would bewail the loss
And absence of her dearest love:
Sometimes she thought the seas to cross,
Her fortune on the waves to prove.

I fear my lord is slain, quoth she,
He stays so from Penelope.

At length the ten years siege of Troy
Did end; in flames and city burn'd;
And to the Grecians was great joy,

To see the towers to ashes turn'd:
Then came Ulysses home to see
His constant, dear, Penelope.

O blame her not if she was glad,
When she her lord again had seen.
Thrice-welcome home, my dear, she said,

A long time absent thou hast been :
The wars shall never more deprive
Me of my lord whilst I'm alive.

Fair ladies all, example take;
And hence a worthy lesson learn,
All youthful follies to forsake,

And vice from virtue to discern:
And let all women strive to be
As constant as Penelope.

XI. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO

THE WARS

By Col. Richard Lovelace: from the volume of his poems intitled, • Lucasta,” Lond. 1649, I2mo. The elegance of this writer's manner would be more admired if it had somewhat more of simplicity.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde,

That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flie.

True, a new mistresse now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore ;

I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.

XII. VALENTINE AND URSINE

The old story-book of Valentine and Orsan (which suggested the plan of this tale, but it is not strictly followed in it) was originally a translation from the French, being one of their earliest attempts at Romance. See "Le Bibliotheque de Romans," &c.

The circumstance of the bridge of bells is taken from the old metrical legend of Sir Bevis, and has also been copied in the Seven Champions. The original lines are:

In the Editor's folio manuscript was an old poem on this subject, in a wretched corrupt state, unworthy the press: from which were taken such particulars as could be adopted.

PART THE FIRST

WHEN Flora 'gins to decke the fields
With colours fresh and fine,

Then holy clerkes their mattins sing
To good Saint Valentine!

The King of France that morning fair
He would a hunting ride;
To Artois forest prancing forth
In all his princelye pride.

To grace his sports a courtly train

Of gallant peers attend;

And with their loud and cheerful cryes

The hills and valleys rend.

Through the deep forest swift they pass,
Through woods and thickets wild;
When down within a lonely dell
They found a new-born child;

All in a scarlet kercher lay'd
Of silk so fine and thin:

A golden mantle wrapt him round,
Pinn'd with a silver pin.

The sudden sight surpriz'd them all;
The courtiers gather'd round;
They look, they call, the mother seek;
No mother could be found.

At length the king himself drew near,
And as he gazing stands,

The pretty babe look'd up and smil'd,
And stretch'd his little hands.

Now, by the rood, King Pepin says,
This child is passing fair:
I wot he is of gentle blood;
Perhaps some prince's heir.

Goe bear him home unto my court
With all the care ye may :
Let him be christen'd Valentine,
In honour of this day:

And look me out some cunning nurse:
Well nurtur'd let him bee;
Nor ought be wanting that becomes
A bairn of high degree.

They look'd him out a cunning nurse;
And nurtur'd well was hee;
Nor ought was wanting that became
A bairn of high degree.

Thus grewe the little Valentine,
Belov'd of king and peers;
And shew'd in all he spake or did
A wit beyond his years.

But chief in gallant feates of arms
He did himself advance,
That ere he grewe to man's estate
He had no peere in France.

And now the early downe began
To shade his youthful chin;
When Valentine was dubb'd a knight,
That he might glory win.

A boon, a boon, my gracious liege,
I beg a boon of thee !

The first adventure that befalls,
May be reserv'd for mee.

The first adventure shall be thine,
The king did smiling say:

Nor many days, when, lo! there came
Three palmers clad in graye.

Help, gracious lord, they weeping say'd;
And knelt, as it was meet:
From Artoys forest we be come,

With weak and wearye feet.

Within those deep and drearye woods
There wends a savage boy;

Whose fierce and mortal rage doth yield
Thy subjects dire annoy.

'Mong ruthless beares he sure was bred;
He lurks within their den :

With beares he lives; with beares he feeds,
And drinks the blood of men.

To more than savage strength he joins
A more than human skill:
For arms, ne cunning may suffice
His cruel rage to still:

Up then rose Sir Valentine,

And claim'd that arduous deed.
Go forth and conquer, say'd the king,
And great shall be thy meed.

Well mounted on a milk-white steed,
His armour white as snow;
As well beseem'd a virgin knight,
Who ne'er had fought a foe:

To Artoys forest he repairs

With all the haste he may;
And soon he spies the savage youth
A rending of his prey.

His unkempt hair all matted hung
His shaggy shoulders round:
His eager eye all fiery glow'd:
His face with fury frown'd.

Like eagles' talons grew his nails :
His limbs were thick and strong;
And dreadful was the knotted oak
He bare with him along.