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"Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie: I have beene dede 'till nowe,

And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne

For aie uponne my browe;

"Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares,


Shalt rule thys fickle lande,

To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande.

"Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave, Shall falle onne thye owne hedde❞—


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Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe:
Hee's greater thanne a kynge!"


"Soe lett hym die!" Duke Richard sayde; "And maye echone oure foes

Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe
And feede the carryon crowes!"

And nowe the horses gentlie drewe


Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;

The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,

Hys pretious bloude to spylle.

Syrr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe
As uppe a gilded carre


Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs

Gayned ynne the bloudie warre.

Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,

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Godde prosper longe oure kynge,

And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule,
Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge!

By 1668.




Thorowe the halle the belle han sounde;

Byelecoyle doe the Grave beseeme;

The ealdermenne doe sytte arounde,
And snoffelle oppe the cheorte steeme,
Lyche asses wylde ynne desarte waste
Swotelye the morneynge ayre doe taste.

Syche coyne theie ate; the minstrels plaie,
The dynne of angelles doe theie keepe;
Heie stylle, the guestes ha ne to saie,

Butte nodde yer thankes ande falle aslape.

Thus echone daie bee I to deene,

Gyf Rowley, Iscamm, or Tyb. Gorges be ne seene.






The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte;
The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;
Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;
The nesh yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe;
The trees enlefèd, yntoe Heavenne straughte,
Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys

The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge;
The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne;
Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe;
Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne;
I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle,
Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle.




So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse,

All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde;
Ynn Womman alleyne mannès pleasaunce lyes;
As Instrumentes of joie were made the kynde.
Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see
Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charme for thee.



Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere,
With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe, 20
Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere,

Beerynge uponne hys backe the ripèd shefe;
Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte;
Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the



Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie, Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde; When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die, Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde; Thann, bee the even foule or even fayre, Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care. 30


Angelles bee wrogte to bee of neidher kynde;
Angelles alleyne fromme chafe desyre bee free:
Dheere ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde,
Yatte, wythout wommanne, cannot styllèd bee;
Ne seyncte yn celles, botte, havynge blodde and tere,
Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of womanne fayre;

Wommen bee made, notte for hemselves, botte manne,
Bone of hys bone, and chyld of hys desire;
Fromme an ynutyle membere fyrste beganne,
Ywroghte with moche of water, lyttele fyre;
Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete
The milkyness of kynde, and make hemselfes complete.

Albeytte wythout wommen menne were pheeres
To salvage kynde, and wulde botte lyve to slea,



Botte wommenne efte the spryghte of peace so cheres, 45 Tochelod yn Angel joie heie Angeles bee:

Go, take thee swythyn to thie bedde a wyfe;

Bee bante or blessed hie yn proovynge marryage lyfe.

By 1668.



O, synge untoe mie roundelaie!

O, droppe the brynie teare wythe mee!
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie;

Lycke a reynynge ryver bee:

Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte;

Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe:
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,

Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,

Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote;

O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Alle underre the wyllowe tree.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,

In the briered delle belowe;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe:

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude,
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude:
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

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