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« A herb there is, that lowly grows,
And some do call it rue, sir;
The smallest dunghill cock that crows
Would make a capon of you, sir.

"A flower there is, that shineth bright,

Some call it mary-gold-a;

He that wold not when he might,
He shall not when he wold-a."

The knight was riding another day,
With cloak and hat and feather,
He met again with that lady gay,
Who was angling in the river.

"Now, lady faire, I've met with you,

You shall no more escape me;

Remember, how not long agoe


You falsely did intrap me."

The lady blushed scarlet red,

And trembled at the stranger:


"How shall I guard my maidenhead From this approaching danger?"

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"Looke yonder, good Sir Knight, I pray, Methinks I now discover,

A riding upon his dapple gray,
My former constant lover."

On tip-toe peering stood the knight,
Fast by the river's brink-a;
The lady pusht with all her might:
"Sir Knight, now swim or sink-a.”


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O'er head and ears he plunged in,
The bottom faire he sounded;
Then rising up, he cried amain,

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'Help, helpe, or else I'm drownded!"

"Now, fare-you-well, Sir Knight, adieu!
You see what comes of fooling;
That is the fittest place for you;

Your courage wanted cooling."



Ere many days, in her father's park,
Just at the close of eve-a

Again she met with her angry sparke;
Which made this lady grieve-a.


"False lady, here thou'rt in my powre, And no one now can hear thee;

And thou shalt sorely rue the hour

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"Once more I'll pardon thee this day,

Tho' injur'd out of measure;

But then prepare without delay
To yield thee to my pleasure.'

"Well then, if I must grant your suit,


Yet think of your boots and
Let me pull off both spur and boot,
Or else you cannot stir, sir."

He set him down upon the grass

And begg❜d her kind assistance;

"Now," smiling thought this lovely lass,


"I'll make you keep your distance.”


Then pulling off his boots half-way:

"Sir Knight, now I'm your betters; You shall not make of me your prey; Sit there like a knave in fetters.'

The knight when she had served soe,
He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled;


For he could neither stand nor goe,

But like a cripple tumbled.

"Farewell, Sir Knight, the clock strikes ten,

Yet do not move nor stir, sir;


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Which every side was moated;

The lady heard his furious vows,
And all his vengeance noted.

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."


Then faining penitence and feare,

She did invite a parley:

"Sir Knight, if you'll forgive me heare,

Henceforth I'll love you dearly.


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"False maid, thou canst no more deceive;


I scorn the treacherous bait-a;

If thou would'st have me thee believe,

Now open me the gate-a.”

"The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd;

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The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke,
And sous'd the unhappy lover.



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.

The devil take her!




Old Tom of Bedlam.


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 original 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 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.

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