TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE
LORD VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE.
O, I who erft beneath a tree
Sung Bumkinet and Bowzybee,
And Blouzelind and Marian bright,
In apron blue or apron white,
Now write my sonnets in a book,
For my good lord of Bolingbroke.
As lads and laffes flood around
To hear my boxen hautboy sound,
Our clerk came pofting o'er the green
With doleful tidings of the queen;
That queen, he said, to whom we owe
Sweet peace that maketh riches flow;
That queen, who eas'd our tax of late,
Was dead, alas!-and lay in ftate.
At this, in tears was Cicely seen,
Buxoma tore her pinners clean,
In doleful dumps stood every clown,
The parfon rent his band and gown.
For me, when as I heard that death
Had fnatch'd queen Anne to Elzabeth,
I broke my reed, and, fighing, fwore,
I'd weep for Blouzelind no more.
E 2
As once I play'd at blindman's buff, it hapt
About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt.
I mifs'd the fwains, and feiz'd on Blouzelind.
True speaks that ancient proverb, "Love is blind."
As at bot-cockles once I laid me down, And felt the weighty hand of many a clown; Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick rofe, and read foft mischief in her eye.
On two near elms the flacken'd cord I hung, Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda fwung. With the rude wind her rumpled garment rofe, And show'd her taper leg, and fcarlet hofe,
Acrofs the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myself pois'd against the tottering maid.
High leapt the plank; adown Buxoma fell;
I fpy'd but faithful fweet-hearts never tell.
This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canft, explain, This wily riddle puzzles every swain.
"What flower is that which bears the virgin's name, "The richest metal joined with the fame?"
Ver. 103-110. were not in the early editions. N.
Ver. 113. Marygold.
Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right, 115 I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight.
"What flower is that which royal honour craves,
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis firown on graves?”
Forbear, contending louts! give o'er your strains,
An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But fee the fun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water stand a-dry,
They're weary of your fongs
"Dic quibus in terris infcripti nomina Regum
Ver. 120. "Et vitula tu dignus & hic."
YOUNG Colin Clout, a lad of peerlefs meed,
Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed
In every wood his carols sweet were known,
At every wake his nimble feats were shown.
When in the ring the ruftic routs he threw,
The damfels' pleasures with his conquests grew ;
Or when aflant the cudgel threats his head,
His danger fmites the breaft of every maid,
But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the fwain,
The parfon's maid, and neatest of the plain;
Marian, that soft could stroke the udder'd cow,
Or leffen with her fieve the barley-mow;
Marbled with fage the hardening cheese the prefs'd,
And yellow butter Marian's skill confefs'd;
But Marian now, devoid of country cares,
Nor yellow butter, nor fage-cheese, prepares;
For yearning love the witless maid employs,
And Love, fay fwains, "all busy heed destroys."
Colin makes mock at all her piteous smart;
A lafs that Cicely hight had won his heart,
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