Sidor som bilder

But then sayd our king, "Now I think of a thing;
Some of your lightfoote I would we had here."
Ho! ho!" quoth Richard, " full well I may say it,
'Tis knavery to eate it, and then to betray it."

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Why art thou angry?" quoth our king merrilye;

“In faith, I take it now very unkind:


I thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily."
Quoth Dicke, "You are like to stay till I have din'd:
You feed us with twatling dishes so small;

Zounds, a blacke-pudding is better than all."

"Aye, marry," quoth our king, "that were a daintye thing, Could a man get but one here for to eate:

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With that Dicke straite arose, and pluckt one from his hose,
Which with heat of his breech gan to sweate.
The king made a proffer to snatch it away :-


“'Tis meat for your master: good sir, you must stay."

Thus in great merriment was the time wholly spent,
And then the ladyes prepared to dance.

Old Sir John Cockle, and Richard, incontinent
Unto their places the king did advance.
Here with the ladyes such sport they did make,
The nobles with laughing did make their sides ake.



Many thankes for their paines did the king give them,
Asking young Richard then, if he would wed;
Among these ladyes free, tell me which liketh thee?"
Quoth he, "Jugg Grumball, Sir, with the red head,
She's my love, she's my life, her will I wed;
She hath sworn I shall have her maidenhead."


Then Sir John Cockle the king call'd unto him,
And of merry Sherwood made him o'er seer,

And gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye:

"Take heed now you steale no more of my deer;

And once a quarter let's here have your view ;
And now, Sir John Cockle, I bid you adieu."




The Shepherd's Resolution.


This beautiful old song was written by a poet, whose name would have been utterly forgotten, if it had not been preserved by Swift, as a term of contempt. Dryden and Wither " are coupled by him like the Bavius and Mævius of Virgil. Dryden, however, has had justice done him by posterity and as for Wither, though of subordinate merit, that he was not altogether devoid of genius will be judged from the following stanzas. The truth is, Wither was a very voluminous partywriter; and as his political and satirical strokes rendered him extremely popular in his lifetime, so afterwards, when these were no longer relished, they totally consigned his writings to oblivion.

George Wither was born June 11, 1588, and in his younger years distinguished himself by some pastoral pieces, that were not inelegant; but growing afterwards involved in the political and religious disputes in the times of James I. and Charles I., he employed his poetical vein in severe pasquils on the court and clergy, and was occasionally a sufferer for the freedom of his pen. In the civil war that ensued, he exerted himself in the service of the Parliament, and became a considerable sharer in the spoils. He was even one of those provincial tyrants whom Oliver distributed over the kingdom, under the name of Major-Generals, and had the fleecing of the county of Surrey; but, surviving the Restoration, he out-lived both his power and his affluence; and giving vent to his chagrin in libels on the court, was long a prisoner in Newgate and the Tower. He died at length on the 2nd of May,


During the whole course of his life, Wither was a continual publisher, having generally for opponent Taylor the Water-poet. The long list of his productions may be seen in Wood's Athenæ Oxon. vol. ii. His most popular satire is entitled, Abuses whipt and stript, 1613. His most poetical pieces were eclogue, entitled, The Shepherd's Hunting, 1615, 8vo, and others printed at the end of Browne's Shepherd's Pipe, 1614, 8vo. The following sonnet is extracted from a long pastoral piece of his, entitled, The Mistresse of Philarete, 1622, 8vo, which is said in the preface to be one of the author's first poems; and may therefore be dated as early as any of the foregoing.

SHALL I, wasting in dispaire,

Dye because a woman's faire ?

Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosie are?
Be shee fairer than the day,
Or the flowry meads in may;

If she be not so to me,

What care I how faire shee be?


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'Cause her fortune seems too high
Shall I play the foole and dye?
Those that beare a noble minde,
Where they want of riches find,

Thinke what with them they would doe
That without them dare to woe;

And, unlesse that minde I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great or good, or kind or faire,
I will ne'er the more dispaire;
If she love me, this beleeve:
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I wooe,
I can scorne and let her goe;

If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?

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Queen Dido.

Such is the title given in the Editor's folio MS. to this excellent old ballad, which, in the common printed copies, is inscribe, Eneas, Wandering Prince of Troy. It is here given from that MS. ollated with two different printed copies, both in black-letter, in the Pepys Collection.

The reader will smile to observe with what natural and affecting simplicity our ancient ballad-maker has engrafted a Gothic conclusion on the classic story of Virgil, from whom, however, it is probable he had it not. Nor can it be denied, but he has dealt out his poetical justice with a more impartial hand than that celebrated poet.

WHEN Troy towne had, for ten yeeres 'past,'
Withstood the Greekes in manfull wise,

Then did their foes encrease soe fast,

That to resist none could suffice:

Wast lye those walls, that were soe good,

And corne now growes where Troy towne stoode.

Eneas. wandering prince of Troy,

When he for land long time had sought,

At length arriving with great joy,

To mighty Carthage walls was brought;

Where Dido queene, with sumptuous feast,
Did entertaine that wandering guest.

And, as in hall at meate they sate,

The queene, desirous newes to heare, "Says, "Of thy Troys unhappy fate,'

Declare to me, thou Trojan deare :

The heavy hap and chance soe bad,

That thou, poore wandering prince, hast had."
And then anon this comelye knight,
With words demure, as he cold well,

Of his unhappy ten yeares 'fight,'
Soe true a tale began to tell,

With words soe sweete, and sighes soe deepe,
That oft he made them all to weepe.

Ver. 1, 21, war. MS. and P.J.







And then a thousand sighes he fet,

And every sigh brought teares amaine ;
That where he sate the place was wett,

As though he had seene those warrs againe :
Soe that the queene, with ruth therfore,
Said, "Worthy prince, enough, no more."

And then the darksome night drew on,
And twinkling starres the skye bespred,
When he his dolefull tale had done,

And every one was layd in bedd:
Where they full sweetly tooke their rest,
Save only Dido's boyling brest.

This silly woman never slept,

But in her chamber, all alone, As one unhappye, alwayes wept,

And to the walls shee made her mone;

That she shold still desire in vaine
The thing, she never must obtaine.

And thus in grieffe she spent the night,

Till twinkling starres the skye were fled, And Phoebus, with his glistering light,

Through misty cloudes appeared red;






Then tidings came to her anon,
That all the Trojan shipps were gone.

And then the queene with bloody knife

Did arme, her hart as hard as stone;


Yet, something loth to loose her life,

In woefull wise she made her mone;

And, rowling on her carefull bed,

With sighes and sobbs, these words shee sayd:

"O wretched Dido queene!" quoth shee,


"I see thy end approacheth neare;

For hee is fled away from thee,

Whom thou didst love and hold so dearo:

What, is he gone, and passed by?

O hart, prepare thyselfe to dye.


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