FOOTNOTES:
[385] ["It was an ancient and pleasing custom to place a garland made of white flowers and white riband upon the coffin of a maiden; it was afterwards hung up over her customary seat in church. Sometimes a pair of white gloves, or paper cut to the shape of gloves, was hung beneath the garland. Chaplets of the kind still hang in some of the Derbyshire churches, and at Hathersage in that county the custom is still retained."—(Transactions of the Essex Archælogical Society, vol. i. 1858, p. 118.) See Corydon's Doleful Knell, vol. ii. book ii. No. 27, p. 275. Ophelia is "allowed her virgin crants" (or garland)—Hamlet, act v. sc. 1. See also an interesting article on Funeral Garlands by Llewellyn Jewitt in the Reliquary, vol. i. (1860), p. 5.]
XIII.
DULCINA.
Given from two ancient copies, one in black-print, in the Pepys Collection: the other in the Editor's folio MS. Each of these contained a stanza not found in the other. What seemed the best readings were selected from both.
This song is quoted as very popular in Walton's Compleat Angler, chap. ii. It is more ancient than the ballad of Robin Good-Fellow printed below, which yet is supposed to have been written by Ben. Jonson.
[The Milk-woman in Walton's Angler says, "What song was it, I pray you? Was it Come shepherds deck your heads, or As at noon Dulcina rested?"
In the Registers of the Stationers' Company, under date of May 22, 1615, there is an entry transferring the right of publication from one printer to another of A Ballett of Dulcina to the tune of Forgoe me nowe, come to me sone. Mr. Chappell also tells us that Dulcina was one of the tunes to the "Psalms and Songs of Sion, turned into the language and set to the tunes of a strange land," 1642.
The editors of the Folio MS., more scrupulous than the bishop, have not printed this song in its proper place, but have turned it into the Supplement of Loose and Humourous Songs (p. [32]). The third stanza of the MS. beginning
"Words whose hopes might have enjoyned"
is not printed in the present copy. The third stanza here is the fourth of the MS., and the fourth stanza is not in the MS. at all.
Cayley and Ellis attribute this song to Raleigh, but without sufficient authority.]
As at noone Dulcina rested
In her sweete and shady bower;
Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lapp to sleepe an hour.
But from her looke 5
A wounde he tooke
Soe deepe, that for a further boone
The nymph he prayes.
Wherto shee sayes,
Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 10
But in vayne shee did conjure him
To depart her presence soe;
Having a thousand tongues to allure him,
And but one to bid him goe:
Where lipps invite, 15
And eyes delight,
And cheekes, as fresh as rose in june,
Persuade delay;
What boots, she say,
Forgoe me now, come to me soone? 20
He demands what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now:
She sayes, night gives love that leysure,
Which the day can not allow.
He sayes, the sight 25
'Improves delight.
'Which she denies: Nights mirkie noone
In Venus' playes
Makes bold, shee sayes;
Forgoe me now, come to mee soone. 30
But what promise or profession
From his hands could purchase scope?
Who would sell the sweet possession
Of suche beautye for a hope?
Or for the sight 35
Of lingering night
Foregoe the present joyes of noone?
Though ne'er soe faire
Her speeches were,
Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 40
How, at last, agreed these lovers?
Shee was fayre, and he was young:
The tongue may tell what th'eye discovers;
Joyes unseene are never sung.
Did shee consent, 45
Or he relent;
Accepts he night, or grants shee noone;
Left he her a mayd,
Or not; she sayd
Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 50
XIV.
THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.
This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263, folio. It is there intitled, "The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's Cruelty: being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the lady Isabella, the only daughter of a noble duke, &c. To the tune of, The Lady's Fall." To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, intitled, The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation.
There was a lord of worthy fame,
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble traine
Of gentrye by his side.
And while he did in chase remaine, 5
To see both sport and playe;
His ladye went, as she did feigne,
Unto the church to praye.
This lord he had a daughter deare,
Whose beauty shone so bright, 10
She was belov'd, both far and neare,
Of many a lord and knight.
Fair Isabella was she call'd,
A creature faire was shee;
She was her father's only joye; 15
As you shall after see.
Therefore her cruel step-mothèr
Did envye her so much;
That daye by daye she sought her life,
Her malice it was such. 20
She bargain'd with the master-cook,
To take her life awaye:
And taking of her daughters book,
She thus to her did saye.
Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, 25
Go hasten presentlie;
And tell unto the master-cook
These wordes that I tell thee.
And bid him dresse to dinner streight
That faire and milk-white doe, 30
That in the parke doth shine so bright,
There's none so faire to showe.
This ladye fearing of no harme,
Obey'd her mothers will;
And presentlye she hasted home, 35
Her pleasure to fulfill.
She streight into the kitchen went,
Her message for to tell;
And there she spied the master-cook,
Who did with malice swell. 40
Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,
Do that which I thee tell:
You needes must dresse the milk-white doe,
Which you do knowe full well.
Then streight his cruell bloodye hands, 45
He on the ladye layd;
Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he sayd:
Thou art the doe, that I must dresse;
See here, behold my knife; 50
For it is pointed presently
To rid thee of thy life.
O then, cried out the scullion-boye,
As loud as loud might bee;
O save her life, good master-cook, 55
And make your pyes of mee!
For pityes sake do not destroye
My ladye with your knife;
You know shee is her father's joye,
For Christes sake save her life. 60
I will not save her life, he sayd,
Nor make my pyes of thee;
Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,
Thy butcher I will bee.
Now when this lord he did come home 65
For to sit downe and eat;
He called for his daughter deare,
To come and carve his meat.
Now sit you downe, his ladye sayd,
O sit you downe to meat: 70
Into some nunnery she is gone;
Your daughter deare forget.
Then solemnlye he made a vowe,
Before the companìe:
That he would neither eat nor drinke, 75
Until he did her see.
O then bespake the scullion-boye,
With a loud voice so hye:
If now you will your daughter see,
My lord, cut up that pye: 80
Wherein her fleshe is minced small,
And parched with the fire:
All caused by her step-mothèr,
Who did her death desire.
And cursed bee the master-cook, 85
O cursed may he bee!
I proffered him my own hearts blood,
From death to set her free.
Then all in blacke this lord did mourne;
And for his daughters sake, 90
He judged her cruell step-mothèr
To be burnt at a stake.
Likewise he judg'd the master-cook
In boiling lead to stand;
And made the simple scullion-boye 95
The heire of all his land.
XV.
A HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID.
This song is a kind of translation of a pretty poem of Tasso's, called Amore fuggitivo, generally printed with his Aminta, and originally imitated from the first Idyllium of Moschus.
It is extracted from Ben Jonson's Masque at the marriage of lord viscount Hadington, on Shrove-Tuesday, 1608. One stanza full of dry mythology is here omitted, as it had been dropped in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called Le Prince d'Amour. Lond. 1660, 8vo.
[The stanza of the first Grace which Percy left out is as follows:—
"At his sight the sun hath turn'd,
Neptune in the waters burn'd;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat:
From the centre to the sky
Are his trophies reared high.">[
[1 Grace.] Beauties have yee seen a toy,
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blinde;
Cruel now; and then as kinde?
If he be amongst yee, say; 5
He is Venus' run away.
[2 Grace.] Shee, that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kisse,
How and where herselfe would wish: 10
But who brings him to his mother
Shall have that kisse, and another.
[3 Grace.] Markes he hath about him plentie;
You may know him among twentie:
All his body is a fire, 15
And his breath a flame entire:
Which, being shot, like lightning, in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
* * * * *
[2 Grace.] Wings he hath, which though yee clip,
He will leape from lip to lip, 20
Over liver, lights, and heart;
Yet not stay in any part.
And, if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himselfe in kisses.
[3 Grace.] He doth beare a golden bow, 25
And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrowes, which outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharpe than other,
With that first he strikes his mother. 30
[1 Grace.] Still the fairest are his fuell,
When his daies are to be cruell;
Lovers hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest bloud:
Nought but wounds his hand doth season, 35
And he hates none like to Reason.
[2 Grace.] Trust him not: his words, though sweet,
Seldome with his heart doe meet:
All his practice is deceit;
Everie gift is but a bait; 40
Not a kisse but poyson beares;
And most treason's in his teares.
[3 Grace.] Idle minutes are his raigne;
Then the straggler makes his gaine,
By presenting maids with toyes 45
And would have yee thinke hem joyes;
'Tis the ambition of the elfe
To have all childish as himselfe.
[1 Grace.] If by these yee please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 50
[2 Grace.] Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him.
[3 Grace.] Since yee heare this falser's play,
And that he is Venus' run-away.
XVI.
THE KING OF FRANCE'S DAUGHTER.
The story of this ballad seems to be taken from an incident in the domestic history of Charles the Bald, king of France. His daughter Judith was betrothed to Ethelwulph king of England: but before the marriage was consummated, Ethelwulph died, and she returned to France: whence she was carried off by Baldwyn, Forester of Flanders; who, after many crosses and difficulties, at length obtained the king's consent to their marriage, and was made Earl of Flanders. This happened about A.D. 863.—See Rapin, Henault, and the French historians.
The following copy is given from the Editor's ancient folio MS. collated with another in black-letter in the Pepys Collection, intitled, An excellent Ballad of a prince of England's courtship to the king of France's daughter, &c. To the tune of Crimson Velvet.
Many breaches having been made in this old song by the hand of time, principally (as might be expected) in the quick returns of the rhime; an attempt is here made to repair them.
[This ballad was written by Thomas Deloney, who included it in his Garland of Goodwill (Percy Society, vol. xxx. p. 52). It is, as Percy points out, founded on history, but Deloney paid little attention to facts. All the first part of the poem, which tells of the miserable end of the English prince of suitable age to the young French princess, is fiction. Judith was Ethelwulf's wife for about two years, and on the death of her husband she married his son Ethelbert. The only historical fact that is followed in the ballad is the marriage of Judith with Baldwin, Great Forester of France, from which union descended Matilda, the wife of William the Conqueror.
The copy in the Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. iii. p. 441) is entitled "In the Dayes of Olde." Percy altered it considerably, sometimes following the printed copy and sometimes the MS.
Mr. Hales suggests that the name of the tune is derived from the dress of the princess, described in vv. 185-6,—
"Their mothers riche array
Was of crimson velvet,"
and Mr. Chappell agrees with him.]
In the dayes of old,
When faire France did flourish,
Storyes plaine have told,
Lovers felt annoye.
The queene a daughter bare, 5
Whom beautye's queene did nourish:
She was lovelye faire
She was her father's joye.
A prince of England came,
Whose deeds did merit fame, 10
But he was exil'd, and outcast:
Love his soul did fire,
Shee granted his desire,
Their hearts in one were linked fast.
Which when her father proved, 15
Sorelye he was moved,
And tormented in his minde.
He sought for to prevent them;
And, to discontent them,
Fortune cross'd these lovers kinde. 20
When these princes twaine
Were thus barr'd of pleasure,
Through the kinges disdaine,
Which their joyes withstoode:
The lady soone prepar'd 25
Her jewells and her treasure;
Having no regard
For state and royall bloode;
In homelye poore array
She went from court away, 30
To meet her joye and hearts delight;
Who in a forest great
Had taken up his seat,
To wayt her coming in the night.
But, lo! what sudden danger 35
To this princely stranger
Chanced, as he sate alone!
By outlawes he was robbed,
And with ponyards stabbed,
Uttering many a dying grone. 40
The princesse, arm'd by love,
And by chaste desire,
All the night did rove
Without dread at all:
Still unknowne she past 45
In her strange attire;
Coming at the last
Within echoes call,—
You faire woods, quoth shee,
Honoured may you bee, 50
Harbouring my heart's delight;
Which encompass here
My joye and only deare,
My trustye friend, and comelye knight.
Sweete, I come unto thee, 55
Sweete, I come to woo thee;
That thou mayst not angry bee
For my long delaying;
For thy curteous staying
Soone amendes Ile make to thee. 60
Passing thus alone
Through the silent forest,
Many a grievous grone
Sounded in her eares:
She heard one complayne 65
And lament the sorest,
Seeming all in payne,
Shedding deadly teares.
Farewell, my deare, quoth hee,
Whom I must never see; 70
For why my life is att an end,
Through villaines crueltye:
For thy sweet sake I dye,
To show I am a faithfull friend.
Here I lye a bleeding, 75
While my thoughts are feeding
On the rarest beautye found.
O hard happ, that may be!
Little knows my ladye
My heartes blood lyes on the ground. 80
With that a grone he sends
Which did burst in sunder
All the tender bands
Of his gentle heart.
She, who knewe his voice, 85
At his wordes did wonder;
All her former joyes
Did to griefe convert.
Strait she ran to see,
Who this man shold bee, 90
That soe like her love did seeme:
Her lovely lord she found
Lye slaine upon the ground,
Smear'd with gore a ghastlye streame.
Which his lady spying, 95
Shrieking, fainting, crying,
Her sorrows could not uttered bee:
Fate, she cryed, too cruell:
For thee—my dearest jewell,
Would God! that I had dyed for thee. 100
His pale lippes, alas!
Twentye times she kissed,
And his face did wash
With her trickling teares:
Every gaping wound 105
Tenderlye she pressed,
And did wipe it round
With her golden haires.
Speake, faire love, quoth shee,
Speake, fair prince, to mee, 110
One sweete word of comfort give:
Lift up thy deare eyes,
Listen to my cryes,
Thinke in what sad griefe I live.
All in vain she sued, 115
All in vain she wooed,
The prince's life was fled and gone.
There stood she still mourning,
Till the suns retourning,
And bright day was coming on. 120
In this great distresse
Weeping, wayling ever,
Oft shee cryed, alas!
What will become of mee?
To my fathers court 125
I returne will never:
But in lowlye sort
I will a servant bee.
While thus she made her mone,
Weeping all alone, 130
In this deepe and deadlye feare:
A for'ster all in greene,
Most comelye to be seene,
Ranging the woods did find her there.
Moved with her sorrowe, 135
Maid, quoth hee, good morrowe,
What hard happ has brought thee here?
Harder happ did never
Two kinde hearts dissever:
Here lyes slaine my brother deare. 140
Where may I remaine,
Gentle for'ster, shew me,
'Till I can obtaine
A service in my neede?
Paines I will not spare: 145
This kinde favour doe me,
It will ease my care;
Heaven shall be thy meede.
The for'ster all amazed,
On her beautye gazed, 150
Till his heart was set on fire.
If, faire maid, quoth hee,
You will goe with mee,
You shall have your hearts desire.
He brought her to his mother, 155
And above all other
He sett forth this maidens praise.
Long was his heart inflamed,
At length her love he gained,
And fortune crown'd his future dayes. 160
Thus unknowne he wedde
With a kings faire daughter;
Children seven they had,
'Ere she told her birth.
Which when once he knew, 165
Humblye he besought her,
He to the world might shew
Her rank and princelye worth.
He cloath'd his children then,
(Not like other men) 170
In partye-colours strange to see;
The right side cloth of gold,
The left side to behold,
Of woollen cloth still framed hee[386].
Men thereat did wonder; 175
Golden fame did thunder
This strange deede in every place:
The king of France came thither,
It being pleasant weather,
In those woods the hart to chase. 180
The children then they bring,
So their mother will'd it,
Where the royall king
Must of force come bye:
Their mothers riche array, 185
Was of crimson velvet:
Their fathers all of gray,
Seemelye to the eye.
Then this famous king,
Noting every thing, 190
Askt how he durst be so bold
To let his wife soe weare,
And decke his children there
In costly robes of pearl and gold.
The forrester replying, 195
And the cause descrying[387],
To the king these words did say,
Well may they, by their mother,
Weare rich clothes with other,
Being by birth a princesse gay. 200
The king aroused thus,
More heedfullye beheld them,
Till a crimson blush
His remembrance crost.
The more I fix my mind 205
On thy wife and children,
The more methinks I find
The daughter which I lost.
Falling on her knee,
I am that child, quoth shee; 210
Pardon mee, my soveraine liege.
The king perceiving this,
His daughter deare did kiss,
While joyfull teares did stopp his speeche.
With his traine he tourned, 215
And with them sojourned.
Strait he dubb'd her husband knight;
Then made him erle of Flanders,
And chiefe of his commanders:
Thus were their sorrowes put to flight. 220
⁂