of Orleans, while prisoner in England during this reign, wrote a volume of Love poems, still preserved among the Harleian Papers, [682]. The Editor looked for a better specimen than the one given by Ritson, beginning,

Lend me youre praty mouth madame,

See how y kneele here at yowre feet, &c. &c.

but it was a vain search.

To the reign of his son, Henry VI. is given the old ballads of Chevy Chace and the battle of Otterbourne, ballads admired by old and young.

time also, is a "(

Of this

Song on an Inconstant Mistress," a theme prevalent in all ages.

Who so lyst to love, God send hym right good spede.
Some tyme y loved, as ye may see,

A goodlyer ther myght none be,
Here womanhode in all degree,
Full well she quytt my mede.
[Who so lyst, &c.]

Unto the tyme, upon a day,

To sone ther fill a gret affray,

She badde me walke forth on my way,

On me she gatt none hede.

Woso lyst, &c.

I asked the cause why and wherfor,
She displesede was with me so sore;
She wold nat tell, but kept in store,
Perdy it was no nede.

Woso lyst, &c.

For if y hadde hur displeased

In worde or dede, or hir greved,
Than if she hadde before meved,*
She hadde cause in dede.

Woso lyst, &c.

* Departed.

But well y wote y hadde nat done,
Hur to displese, but in grete mone
She hath me left and ys agone,
For sowre my hert doth blede.
Wo so lyst, &c.

Some tyme she wold to me complayne,
Yff she had felt dysease or payne,
Now fele y nought but grete disdayne,
Allas, what is your rede?

Wo so lyst, &c.

Shall I leve of, and let hur go?
Nay ner the rather will y do so,

Yet though unkyndnesse do me wo,
Hur will y love and drede.

Wo so lyst, &c

Some hope that when she knowith the case,
Y truste to God that withyne short spase
She will me take agayne to grace,
Than have y well abydde.

In the reign of Edward IV. we have a balet' by Anthony Woodvyle, Earl Rivers, written during his imprisonment in Pontefract castle, in the year 1483,

* From MSS. More, F. f. 1. 6. Ritson's Ancient Songs, p. 72. Among the Harleian MSS. [541] written in Henry VIth's time, there is an old song beginning :

Bryng us home good ale, sír, bryng us home good ale,
And, for our der ladylove bryng us home good ale.

Its value is hurt by its indelicacy, and the introduction of our Saviour's 'curse and mine.' Dr. Johnson has said of it-that the merriment is very gross, and the sentiments very worthless.

there is nothing remarkable in it, though Percy and Ritson have inserted it in their collections.

To Henry the Eighth's time belongs John Skelton, the poet laureat, an industrious plodding rhymer; many of his songs savour too strongly of indecency, and others are but scant of merit. His works paint the manners of his age, and are valuable merely for that unpoetical quality. We have other songs besides Skelton's, written at this period, the best of which is one entitled by Ritson :

A [LOVE] SONGE.

My joye it is from her to here,
Whom that my mynd ys ener to see,
& to my hart she ys most near
For I love hur & she lovyth me.

Of deuty nedes I must hur love,
Which hath my hart so stedfastly,
Ther ys no payne may me convert,

But styll to loue hur whyle she lovyth me.

Both loue for loue, & hart for hart,
Which hath my hart so stedfastly,
Therfore my hart shall not remove,
For I love hur & she lovyth me.

Chryst wolt the ffugert of hur swete face

Were pyctored wher euer I 'be'

Yn euery hall, from place to place,
For I loue hur and she lovyth me.

Her copany doth me confort,
Therfor in hast J wyll resorte,

To yoye my harte wt play & sport,
For I loue hur & she lovyth me.

* Would to Christ.

+ Figure.

Ritson strangely enough altered these verses himself for the new edition of his Ancient Songs, transposing lines, omitting the last

Sir John Hawkins in his History of Music has presented us with another very pretty song, written in Harry the Eighth's day, inserted by Ritson in his Ancient Songs.

MY SWETE SWETING.

Ah, my swete swetyng!

My lytyl prety swetyng,

My swetyng wyl I loue whereuer I go;
She is so proper and pure,

Full stedfast, stabill and demure,

There is none such, ye may be sure,
As my swete sweting.

In all thys world, as thynketh me,
Is none so plesaunt to my eye,
That I am glad soo ofte to see,
As my swete swetyng.

When I behold my swetyng swete,
Her face, her hands, her minion fete,
They seme to me there is none so mete,
As my swete swetyng.

Above all other prayse must I,
And loue my pretty pygsnye,*

For none I fynd soo womanly
As my swete swetyng.

Among the Royal MSS. in the British Museum there is a small oblong music book, with words and notes, undoubtedly written during the reign of Henry VIII. The songs found in it are of no great merit, even the industrious Ritson, a lover of every

stanza, and christening it, "Mutual Affection," what sacrilege! See the edition of 1830, vol. ii. p. 22. The above is printed from the MS. (Harl. 3362) and Ritson's first print.

Sweetheart.

thing that wore an air of antiquity, passed it over. It contains a few verses nevertheless written with a tinge of comic spirit about them, an uncommon rarity in this class of English productions. An unfortunate suitor, apparently rejoicing that some misfortune has happened to his once loved Kytt, bursts into the subject at once-

Kytt hathe lost hur key hur key,
Goode Kytt hath lost hur key,
She is so sorry for the cause→→→
She wotts not what to say-

She wotts not what to say goode Kytt-
She wotts not what to say,

Goode Kitt's so sorry for the canse-
She wotts not what to say.

Goode Kytt she wept, I ask'd why so
That she made all this mone,

She sayde alas! I am so woo
My key is lost and gone.

Kytt hathe lost, &c.

Kytt why did ye losse your key
Fore sothe ye were to blame,
Now eu'y man to yow will say
Kytt Losse Key is your name.
Kytt hathe lost, &c.

Goode Kytt she wept and cry'd, alas!
Hur key she cowde not fynde
In faythe I trow in bowrs she was
With sum that were not kinde.
Kytt hathe lost, &c.

Now farewell Kytt I can no more
I wot not what to say,

But I shall pray to Gode therfore
That yow may fynde your key.
Kytt hathe lost, &c.