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2. Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,

When calm around the common room And—but on Sundays—hears no bells;

I puff’d my daily pipe's perfume ! Ea Sends presents of his choicest fruit,

Rode for a stomach, and inspected, And prunes himself each sapless shoot;

At annual botulings, corks selected : bisan Plants cauliflow'rs, and boasts to rear

And din'd untax’d, untroubled, under En. The earliest melons of the year;

The portrait of our pious founder! Thinks alteration charming work is,

When impositions were supply'd Keeps bantam cocks, and feeds his turkies;

To light my pipe-or soothe my prideBeste Builds in his copse a fav'rite bench,

No cares were then for forward peas, And stores the pond with carp and tench.

A yearly-longing wife to please;
But ah! too soon his thoughtless breast

My thoughts no christ’ning dinners crost, Bistro By cares domestic is opprest;

No children cry'd for butter'd toast; And a third butcher's bill, and brewing,

And ev'ry night I went to bed, Threaten inevitable ruin:

Without a modus in my head!” do For children fresh expenses yet,

Oh! trifling head, and fickle heart! And Dicky now for school is fit.

Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art; “ Why did I sell my college life

A dupe to follies yet untry'd, (He cries) for benefice and wife?

And sick of pleasures scarce enjoy'd! Return, ye days! when endless pleasure

Each prize possess’d, thy transport ceases, I found in reading, or in leisure !

And in pursuit alone it pleases.

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“ Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n

“ Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,

Of parents of grete note; I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade

My fadre dydd a nobile armes Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

Emblazon onne hys cote: “ By Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n,

“ I make ne doubte butt bee ys gone, Thys sunne shall be hys laste.”

Where soone I hope to goe; Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,

Where wee for ever shall bee blest, And from the presence paste.

From oute the reech of woe. Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,

“ Hee taughte mee justice and the laws Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,

Wyth pitie to unite; And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole,

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe And teares beganne to flowe.

The wronge cause from the ryghte: “ Wee all must die," quod brave Sir Charles;

“ Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande “ Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;

To feede the hungrie poore, Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie Of all wee mortall menne.

The hungrie fromm my doore: “ Say why, my friende, thie honest soul

“ And none can saye but alle mye lyse Runns over att thyne eye;

I have hys wordyes kept; Is ytte for my most welcome doome

And summ’d the actyonns of the daie Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?"

Eche nyghte before I slept. Quod godlie Canynge,“ I doe weepe,

“ I have a spouse, goe aske of her Thatt thou so soone must dye,

Yff I defyld her bedde? And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyse;

I have a kynge, and none can laie 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.”

Black treason onne my hedde. " Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye

“ Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, From godlie fountaines sprynge;

Fromm tleshe I dydd refrayne ; Dethe I despise, and alle the power

Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.

To leave thys worlde of payne ? “ Whan through the tyrant's welcom means “ Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce I shall resigne my lyfe,

I shall ne see thye dethe; The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde

Most willynglie yone thye just cause For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.

Doe I resign my brethe. “ Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,

“ Oh, fickle people ! rewyn'd londe! Thys was appointed mee;

Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe; Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge

Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, What Godde ordeynes to bee?

Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. “ Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,

“ Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, Whan thousands dy'd arounde;

And godlie Henrie's reigne, Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde:

For those of bloude and peyne? “ Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte,

“ Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne, Thatt cutte the airie waie,

And mangled by a hynde, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,

I doe defye the traytour's pow'r, And close myne eyes for aie?

Hee can ne harm my mynde; And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,

though, uphoisted onne a pole, Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?

Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere;

And ne ryche monument of brasse Bee alle the manne display'd.

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; “ Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende,

“ Yett ynne the holie book above, And guarde thee and thye sonne,

Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, Yff’tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,

There wythe the sarvants of the Lord Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

Mye name shall lyve for aie. 6 My honest friende, my faulte has beene

“ Thenne welcome detbe! for lyfe eterne To serve Godde and mye prynce;

I leave thys mortall lyfe: And thatt I no tyme-server am,

Farewell vayne worlde, and all that's deare, My dethe wylle soone convynce.

Mye sonnes and lovyoge wyfe!

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** Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes

Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;
Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,

Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern
Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.”

Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Quod Canynge, “ 'Tys a goodlie thynge

Before hym went the council-menne,
To bee prepar'd to die;

Ynne scarlett robes and golde,
And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe

And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie.”

Muche glorious to beholde: - And nowe the belle began to tolle,

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next
And claryonnes to sound;

Appeared to the syghte,
E. Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete

Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,
A prauncyng onne the grounde:

Of godlie monkysh plyghte:
And just before the officers

Yone diffraunt partes a godlie psaume
His lovynge wyfe came ynne,

Moste sweetlie theye dyd chaunt;
Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe,

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt. • Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Yon quiet lett mee die;

Echone the bowe dydd bende,
Praie Godde that ev'ry Christian soule

From rescue of Kynge Henries friends
Maye looke onne dethe as I.

Syr Charles forr to defend.
Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers ?

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,
Theye washe my soule awaie,

Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,

Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe

Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe Untoe the lande of blysse;

Of archers stronge and stoute,
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,

Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Receive thys holie kysse.”

Marched ynne goodlie route:
Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,

Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke:

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt: * Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,

And theyre attendyng mennc cchone,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.”

Lyke easterne princes trick't:
And nowe the officers came ynne

And after them a multitude
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,

Of citizenns dydd thronge;
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe,

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes, And thus to her dydd saie:

As hee dydd passe alonge. “ I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, Truste thou ynne Godde above,

Syr Charles dydd turne and saie, And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,

“ O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne, And ynne theyre hertes hym love:

Washe mye soule clean thys daie!" “ Teache them to runne the nobile race

Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat
Thatt I theyre fader runne

The kynge ynne myckle state,
Florence! shou'd dethe thee take-adieu!

To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
Yee officers leade onne."

To hys most welcom fate.
Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, And dydd her tresses tere;

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte beare, - Oh staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!”— The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.

And thus hys wordes declare: 'T yll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,

“ Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Shee fellen onne the flore;

Expos’d to infamie;
St Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

Butt bee assur’d, disloyall manne!
And march'd fromm oute the dore.

I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

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“ Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, Thou wearest nowe a crowne;

And rounde the scaffolde twyne; And hast appoynted mee to die,

And teares, enow to washe't awaie, By power nott thyne owne.

Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne. “ Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie;

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre I have beene dede till nowe,

Ynnto foure partes cutte; And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne

And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, For aie uponne my browe:

Uponne a pole was putte. “ Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares,

One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, Shalt rule thys fickle lande,

One onne the mynster-tower, To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule

And one from off the castle-gate 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:

The crowen dydd devoure: “ Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave!

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, Shall falle onne thye owne hedde”—

A dreery spectacle; Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge

Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, Departed thenne the sledde.

Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile. Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face,

Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate: Hee turn'd his hedde awaie,

Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And to hys broder Gloucester

And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Hee thus dydd speke and saie:

Ynne Heav'n Godde's mercie synge! “ To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe

Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,
Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,

MYNSTRELLES SONGE.
Hee's greater thanne a kynge!"

O! synge untoe mie roundelaie, “ Soe lett hym die!” Duke Richarde sayde;

0! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,

Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, “ And maye ech one oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,

Lycke a rennynge ryver bee; And feede the carryon crowes.”

Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,
And nowe the horses gentlie drewe

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,

Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
His pretious bloude to spylle.

Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,

Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,

Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe; As uppe a gilded carre

Mie love

ys

dedde, Of victorye, bye val’rous chiefs

Gon to hys death-bedde, Gayn’d ynne the bloudie warre:

Al under the wyllowe tree. And to the people hee dyd saie :

Swote hys tongue as the throstles note, “ Beholde you see mee dye,

Quycke ynn daunce as thought canve bee, For servynge loyally mye kynge,

Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote, Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.

O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: “ As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,

Mie love ys dedde, Ne quiet you wylle knowe:

Goune to hys death-bedde, Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,

Al under the wyllowe tree. And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, “ You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge,

In the briered delle belowe; Whenne ynne adversitye;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,

To the nyghte-mares as beie goe; And for the true cause dye.”

Mie love ys

dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
A pray'r to Godde dyd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Hys partynge soule to take.

Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;

Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde

Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Most seemlie onne the blocke;

Mie love

y's dedde, Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once

Gon to lays death-bedde, The able heddes-manne stroke:

Al under the wyllow tree.

Heere uponne mie true love's grave,

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,

Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Nee on hallie seyncte to save

Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne, Al the celness of a mayde.

Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. Mie love ys dedde,

Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllow tree.

Al under the wyllowe tree. Wythe my hondes I'll dente the brieres

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Rounde his hallie corse to gre,

Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Hleere mie bodie still schalle bee.

Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

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