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Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde:

Mie love ys dedde,

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

Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre;
Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres,
Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee:

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie:
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die! I comme! mie true love waytes.-
Thos the damselle spake and dyed.
By 1668.



In Virgynè the sweltrie sun gan sheene,
And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie;
The apple rodded from its palie greene,

And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie;
The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie;

'T was nowe the pride, the manhode, of the yeare,
And eke the grounde was dighte in its most defte aumere.







The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie,
Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue;
When from the sea arist in drear arraie

A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue,

The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe,
Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face,
And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace.

Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side
Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine's covent lede,
A hapless pilgrim moneynge dyd abide,

Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede,
Longe bretful of the miseries of neede:

Where from the hailstone coulde the almer flie?
He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.

Look in his glommèd face, his spright there scanne:
Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade!
Haste to thie church-glebe-house, ashrewed manne;
Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dorture bedde:
Cale as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde
Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves;
Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.


Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound
Cheves slowie on, and then embollen clangs,
Shakes the hie spyre, and, losst, dispended, drowned,
Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges;
The windes are up, the lofty elmen swanges;
Again the levynne and the thunder poures,
And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers.




The gathered storme is rype; the bigge drops falle;
The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine; 30
The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall,

And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine;
Dashde from the cloudes, the waters flott againe;
The welkin opes, the yellow levynne flies,
And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.



Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, The Abbote of Seyncte Godwyne's convente came: His chapournette was drented with the reine, And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame; He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same. The storme encreasen, and he drew aside With the mist almes-craver neere to the holme to bide.

His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne,
With a gold button fastened neere his chynne;
His autremete was edged with golden twynne,
And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne-
Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne;

The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte.

"An almes, sir prieste!" the droppynge pilgrim saide;
"O let me waite within your covente dore,
Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade,
And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer.
Helpless and ould am I, alas! and poor;

No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche;
All yatte I calle my owne is this my silver crouche."

"Varlet," replyd the Abbatte, "cease your dinne!
This is no season almes and prayers to give.
Mie porter never lets a faitour in;

None touch mie rynge who not in honour live."
And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve,

Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde:
Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen,
Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde;
His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene;
A Limitoure he was of order seene.

And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,
Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.





And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie:

The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie. 70



"An almes, sir priest!" the droppynge pilgrim sayde, "For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake!" The Limitoure then loosened his pouche threade, And did thereoute a groate of silver take: The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. "Here, take this silver; it maie eathe thie care: We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare.

"But ah, unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me

Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde.

Here, take my semecope-thou arte bare, I see;
'Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde."
He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.

Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, Or give the mittee will or give the gode man power!



This evening, Delia, you and I
Have managed most delightfully;

For with a frown we parted,
Having contrived some trifle that
We both may be much troubled at
And sadly disconcerted.

Yet well as each performed their part,
We might perceive it was but art,
And that we both intended
To sacrifice a little ease;
For all such petty flaws as these
Are made but to be mended.

You knew, dissembler! all the while,
How sweet it was to reconcile
After this heavy pelt;

That we should gain by this allay
When next we met, and laugh away
The care we never felt.








Happy! when we but seek to endure
A little pain, then find a cure,

By double joy requited;

For friendship, like a severed bone,
Improves and joins a stronger tone

When aptly reunited.

About 1752?




When Cromwell fought for pow'r, and while he

The proud protector of the pow'r he gained,
Religion, harsh, intolerant, austere,
Parent of manners like herself severe,
Drew a rough copy of the Christian face,
Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace;
The dark and sullen humour of the time
Judged ev'ry effort of the Muse a crime;
Verse in the finest mould of fancy cast
Was lumber in an age so void of taste.
But when the second Charles assumed the sway,
And arts revived beneath a softer day,
Then, like a bow long forced into a curve,

The mind, released from too constrained a nerve,
Flew to its first position with a spring

That made the vaulted roofs of Pleasure ring.
His court, the dissolute and hateful school
Of Wantonness, where vice was taught by rule,
Swarmed with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid
With brutal lust as ever Circe made.
From these a long succession in the rage
Of rank obscenity debauched their age,
Nor ceased, till, ever anxious to redress
Th' abuses of her sacred charge the press,
The Muse instructed a well-nurtured train
Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain,
And claim the palm for purity of song,
That Lewdness had usurped and worn so long.
Then decent Pleasantry and sterling Sense,

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