They hew'd him when they had him got, The Lady young, which did lament A Maiden and a Wife : An hundred Men, that hapless Day, 盒盒 An Excellent Ballad of a Prince of England's Courtship to the King of France's Daughter, and how Prince was disasterously flain, and the aforefaid Princefs was afterwards marry'd to a Forrester. the To the Tune of, Crimfon Velvet. The following Song is, I believe, written on a fictitious Subject, at least I have not been able to difcover any Part of History to which it alludes; however, I will not pretend to advance pofitively that it is fictitious, feeing that very few of thefe venerable ancient Song Editors were whollyindebted to Invention for their Poetical Productions; most of thofe who do not relate a direct Fact having fome Story at least in view, which through length of Time may have been forgotten. N the Days of old, IN When fair France flourish, Stories plainly told, Lovers felt annoy : The The King a Daughter had, He woo'd her long, and lo at last, She granted his Defire, Their Hearts in one were linked fast. Which when her Father proved, Lord how he was moved, And tormented in his Mind; He fought for to prevent them, And to discontent them, Fortune croffed Lovers kind. When these Princes twain Were thus barr'd of Pleasures, Of State or Royal Blood: In homely poor Array She went from Court away, To meet her Love and Heart's de light, Who in a Forest great, Had taken up his Seat, To wait her coming in the Night: But lo, what fudden Danger, To this Princely Stranger, Chanced as he fet alone; By Outlaws he was robbed, The Princess armed by him, Wandring Wandring all the Night, Within Eccho's call: Harbouring my Hearts delight: Which doth incompass here My Joy and only dear, My trufty Friend and comely Knight. Sweet I come unto thee, Sweet I come to woo thee, That thou may'st not angry be, For my long delaying, And thy courteous staying, Amends for all I'll make to thee. Paffing thus alone Through the filent Forest, Many a grievous Groan Sounded in her Ear; Where she heard a Man To lament the forest Chance that ever came, Forc'd by deadly Strife: Farewel, my dear, quoth he, Whom I fhall never fee, For why, my Life is at an end, For thy fweet fake I dye, Through Villains Cruelty, To fhow I am a faithful Friend. Here I lye bleeding, While my Thoughts are feeding, On the rarest Beauty found, O hard hap that may be, Little knows my Lady My Heart's Blood lies on the Ground. With that he gave a Groan, Of his gentle Heart: Did to Grief convert: Who this Man should be, Smear'd in Blood which Life did break, Lord how fore she cryed, Her Sorrows could not counted be; Her Eyes like Fountains running, While the cry'd out, My Darling, His pale Lips, alas, Twenty times she kiffed, And his Face did wash With her brinish Tears; Every bleeding Wound Her fair Face bedewed, Wiping of the Blood With her golden Hair: Speak, my Love, quoth she, Speak, dear Prince, to me, One fweet Word of Comfort give; Lift up thy fair Eyes, Listen to my Cries, Think in what great Grief I live: All in vain she sued, All in vain she wooed, The Prince's Life was fled and gone. There flood she still mourning, 'Till the Sun's approaching, And bright Day was coming on. In |