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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.

Old Arthur's board: on the capacious round
Some British pen has sketch'd the names renown'd,
In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.
Though join'd by magic skill with many a rhyme,
The Druid frame unhonour'd falls a prey
To the slow vengeance of the wizard time,
And fade the British characters away ;
Yet Spenser's page, that chaunts in verse sublime
Those chiefs, shall live unconscious of decay.

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IX.

TO THE RIVER LODON.

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun :
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!
While pensive memory traces back the round,
Which fills the varied interval between ;
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road!
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure,
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flow'd,
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature;
Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd.

THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT. 1746.

When now mature in classic knowledge,
The joyful youth is sent to college,
His father comes, a vicar plain,
At Oxford bred-in Anna's reign,
And thus, in form of humble suitor,
Bowing accosts a reverend tutor.
“ Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine,
And this my eldest son of vine;
My wife's ambition and my own
Was that this child should wear a gown;
I'll warrant that his good behaviour
Will justify your future favour;
And for his parts, to tell the truth,
My son's a very forward youth;
Has Horace all by heart-you'd wonder-
And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder.
If you'd examine-and admit him,
A scholarship would nicely fit him:
That he succeeds 'tis ten to one;
Your vote and interest, Sir!"—'Tis done.

Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated,
Are with a scholarship completed:
A scholarship but half maintains,
And college rules are heavy chains:
In garret dark he smokes and puns,
A prey to discipline and duns;
And now intent on new designs,
Sighs for a fellowship-and fines.

When nine full tedious winters past,
That utmost wish is crown'd at last:
But the rich prize no sooner got,
Again he quarrels with his lot:

6. These fellowships are pretty things,
We live indeed like petty kings:
But who can bear to waste his whole age
Amid the dullness of a college,
Debarr'd the common joys of life,
And that prime bliss-a loving wife!
O! what's a table richly spread
Without a woman at its head!
Would some snug benefice but fall,
Ye feasts, ye dinners! farewell all!
To officers I'd bid adieu,
Of Dean, Vice Pres.-of Bursar too;
Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
Come, tithes, and house, and fruitful fields."

Too fond of freedom and of ease
A patron's vanity to please,
Long time he watches, and by stealth,
Each frail incumbent's doubtsul health ;
At length-and in his fortieth year,
A living drops-two hundred clear!
With breast elate beyond expression,
He hurries down to take possession,
With rapture views the sweet retreat-
“ What a convenient house! how neat!
For fuel here's sufficient wood:
Pray God the cellars may be good!
The garden-that must be new plann'de
Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand?
O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
The flow'ry shrub of thousand dyes:-
Yon wall, that feels the southern ray,
Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay:
While thick beneath its aspect warm
O'er-well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm,
From which, ere long, of golden gleam
Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream:
This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy,
We'll alter to a modern privy:
Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,
An avenue so cool and dim,
Shall to an arbour, at the end,
In spite of gout, entice a friend.
My predecessor lov'd devotion-
But of a garden had no notion.”

Continuing this fantastic farce on,
He now commences country parson.
To make his character entire,
He weds—a cousin of the 'squire;
Not over weighty in the purse,
But many doctors have done worse:
And though she boasts no charms divine,
Yet she can carve and make birch wine.

Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel,
Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel;
Finds his church-wardens have discerning
Both in good liquor and good learning;
With tithes his barns replete he sees,
And chuckles o'er lus surplice fees;
Studies to find out latent dues,
And regulates the state of pews;
Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,
To share the monthly club's carousing;

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 ! Sends presents of his choicest fruit,

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

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

And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under 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 prideBuilds 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, 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 !" 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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I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech,

I start at the sound of my own. The beasts, that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell

These vallies and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,

O share Maria's grief!
Her favourite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)

Assassined by a thief.
Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung,

And though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle blest,
Well-taught he all the sounds exprest

Of flagelet or flute.
The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole;

His bosom of the hue,
With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise

To sweep up all the dew.
Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike to bird and mouse,

No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On props of smoothest-shaven wood,

Large-built and latticed well.
Well-latticed—but the grate, alas !
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,

For Bully's plumage sake, But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, With which, when neatly peeled and dried,

The swains their baskets make. Night veiled the pole. All seemed secure. When led by instinct sharp and sure,

Subsistence to provide,

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report

Of a land, I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.

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