And maugre all her true, beseechynge breth,
Was dampned to the dredful fiery deth,
The likest helle on erthe, even the stake.

Oh puré blood, swiche feendlich thirst to slake!
Alas for the soft flesche and gentil herte !
Alas, why colde she not fro life asterte
Softlie and sodenlie, with no moe care!

Alas, that strongé men, which wol not beare
The prycking of a thorne, but they must curse,
And rage, and ban, and shew themselven worse
Than manie a Pagan, yet, sirs, can desire
To put a poore young creature to the fire!

I n'ot how they colde beare the nights and dayes,
That wasted her with frights and with amaze
For constant thinking of that passe of helle.
Beare it I may not, I, nor you it telle;
And so I hasten th' executioun.

Come is the daye, and crowded by the toun
Is Felon's Feeld, all save the stakés place,
And there full soone is seen the simple face,
All redde at first, then whyte, and nothing stern,
That fro the spinning-wheele was tane to burn.

And 'Oh, grete God!' thus dumbly prayeth she, 'That willest me to beare this miserie

For some just cause, though it I may not finde
In the remembraunce of my feeble minde,

I praye thee adde it not to mine offence

If speedilie I wolde be burned hence,

And ask the grace thereto at mannés hand.'

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And, with the wordes, a littel from her stand
She yearned to the man that readie stood
To put the lighted torche unto the wood,
And said, 'Hast thou a wife, or female child?'
And he said, 'Both.' And she in a sort smiled
For mfort of the kindred of the man,

And said,For their sakes I beseeche thee than,
That thou wilt put the wood a litel higher
About me, that the sooner by the fire

I may be reachéd in the throat and breth,
And so be ended.' And the man of deth,

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The whiles he graunted her the dredfull grace,

For veray pity turned away his face,
And swiftly as he colde the fagots lit.
But manie in the croud colde bearen it
No moe, mothers and wives in speciall,
But gat them holpen back unto the wall:

F

They felt the unborn babe stir at their hertes;
So piteous swete, and void of ill desertes,
She looked, somedele shrinking at the flame;
Then hid her face, not to behold the same,
And bowed her hed, and shope her for to die.

But what is this, that maketh heavenlie
The aire, with smell of flowrés strange and new,
As if from veray Paradise it blew,

Or Heaven has opend, flowr-like, on the place?
And lo! the stake; and lo! the blissful face;
All blissful is the face, but now so lorne,
For, of the fagots, all just lit beforne
Are turnd to trees of roses, redde and brighte,
And all, not lit, are turnd to roses whyte !
Her foes are gone, feeble with dredfull feare;
And all the croud, whiles such as standen neare
Drawe back to make moe wyde the holy ring,
Fall downe to kneelynge and to worshippynge:
And there she standeth, shining all abrede,
Like to an angell, paradysd in dede.

THE SHEWE OF FAIRE SEEMING

ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER

ARGUMENT

WISDOM, upon his wondrous stage,
Doth shewe his scenes to youth;
Which WORLDLY WISDOM, fault-finding
Stirreth to further truth.

I

A FAIRE old house, less statelie than serene,
Nigh to a towne, yet deepe within a glade,
And looking on a lawne of gladsome greene,

Whence crept a path to manie a thoughtful shade,
WISDOM Whilere his gentle dwelling made.

A little brooke, neare beehives not a few,

Glimmered in front; beside whose streame there played
Children, the which it pleased him much to view;
And bright, the streame beyond, a beauteous garden grew.

II

There ofte, at breake of day, be scene he might,
Drawing sweet balsams from the bitterest flowers;
Or, at his doore, by the starres' booke at night,
Reading of endlesse, angell-winged houres

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For he held converse with celestiall powers,
From which he sole true name of wizard bore;
And among other giftes and goodly dowers,
Sights could he shewe, most faire, to aide his lore,
And also sights most uglie, for to urge it more.

III

What, weighed with him, were wizards every one,
So called, but fooles, tricking and tricked withal?
As Merlin, he that was a devil's son,

Yet in a trap set by his dame did fall;

Or that same slaine Maugis, faulse cardinall;
Or Faustus, selling to the sire of lies

His worthlesse selfe, whence neither gained at all.
Wizard is wiseard; and the onlie wise

Is he, whose setting sun is heavenlie as its rise.

IV

And who such lore could teache as Wisdom's selfe?
Therefore did Heaven itselfe, from all he sawe,
And all he found in knowledge on his shelfe,
Give him unearthlie power sights forth to drawe
Of spirituall thinges, bound to obey no lawe
Of like compulsion, or be seene of eyes,

Save theirs whom he would grace, or would adawe,
With beauteous cherishment, or dread surprise:
And ever they came soft, and swiftlie, servant-wise.

His house's largest roome, as was his wont,
Making kinde schoole for youthes of budding age,
He, with these sights and shewes therein, would daunt
Their hastie wills, and reverent thoughts engage
Setting all forth upon a very stage:

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For much the stage he loved, and wise theatre,

Counting it as a church, in which the page

Of vertuous verse found the sole dispensator,

That could, with doubling force, make auditor spectator.

VI

At lessons thus high taught in sagest schoole,

Smiling approofe as each before him rose,

A would-be sib, who secretly its rule

Deemed fond, and for small tricks took those great shewes,

(His name was WORLDLY WISDOM) one day chose

To sit; and though as in approofe he sat,

'Twas in such sort as one that inly knowes

More than he heares; and though commending that,

Hath something still in store, to raise a caveat.

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VII

The chosen youthes, who that day sat athirst
For new shewes promised them on Wisdom's stage,
Were such as nighed unto the time, when first
They left, to seeke the worlde, his safer page,
And felt their bloods warming to kindlie rage
For all that manlie was, and good, and faire.
Alas! too truly fitted to assuage

That thirst the shewes were found, for sad they were;

The more for seeming glad, when first they came from aire.

VIII

From aire they came, soft sliding, without pace,

And unto musick fitting each in tone;

And as they, one by one, stood fixed in place,

Voices of friends invisible made known

Their names with zeale, in which much love was shewn,

With great avisement of their vertues rare.

The names were faulse, and not the names alone,
Ne faulser than their fronts and faces were ;

And foule was all their substance, as their seeming faire.

IX

The first was HONESTY, a chapman plaine,

With manlie cheare, half smiling and half stayed,

To shewe that he one measure for his gaine

And one for equall dealing kept in trade.

His clothing stout had all for use been made;

Which to keepe cleane, and make it last the more,

O'er all his front an apron he had laid;

And in his heavie hand from Chepe he bore

A cornucopia long, whose mouth shewed piled up store.

X

Awhile he stood, as making gentle suit

For custom, which the youthfull gazers all

Had fain accorded, so faire looked his fruit,

So closely packed, and marked at price so small,

And scarce could they forbeare to cry aloud,

And he himself fellow so good withal:

And call him to them as from publicke stall;

Till recollecting he was shewe avowed

Of magic crafte, they whist, and stilled their joyous crowd.

XI

With loutings then, and visage still in view,

Like to a player's congee on the stage,

He backward stepped, as one his path that knew,

And so would finish: but the wizard sage

Sternly him stopped, like a right archimage,

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And bade him in his going turne about:

On which the man, with looks at first of rage,
Then of remonstrance, then refusal stout,

Then fear and abject reverence, turned him to go out.

XII

But what a change was then! and how the back
Belied the front of that same chapman plaine !

For it was all one rotten pedlar's pack,

On which there swarmed in heapes grubs close as grain;
And like a Janus he had faces twain,

Of which the hindmost was a beetle's face

Made bigger, such as rolleth dirt with pain;
Whiles up to that same cornucopia's grace

Of shewe in front, there ran one vile long hollow place.

XIII

Then voices very different from those first

That praised the man, and gave him noble name,
Cried out 'DISHONESTY!' and him accurst

As one that pilled the poore, and did great shame

Unto true HONESTY, and wrongfull blame;

And all those youthes, the which had put their trust

In his full horne, and longed to buy the same

Not more for feast, than joy in one so just,

Felt scorne and shame, and banned his loathly trunk and bust.

XIV

He went; and in his place presented was

One, in those youthes that seemed to take great pride,

And by those first fond tongues, as with true cause,

By name of JUST LAUDATION was outcried

With lusty loudness, that dissent defied.

A doctor's gowne he wore, his right that shewed

To judge in schooles, and speake of scholars tried;

And ever as he came, his visage glowed

With greeting so entranced, as worldes of praise bestowed.

XV

Not olde he was, ne was his gowne in sooth
Much overnewe, but somewhat bare of thread;
Which yet he wore, as one that cared for truth
Much more than treasure, ne would fain be fed
With feast, provided he got noble bread
Out of the sweat of a free-judging brow,

Which looked unto deedes done, not sayings sed;

And then he spoke, and owned he knew not how

To call halfe-knowledge whole, ne unto halfe-worth bow.

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