Peace nowe, hee sayd, good faire Ellen, § 123. The King and the Miller of Mansfield. It has been a favourite subject with our English balladmakers, to represent our kings conversing either by accident or design with the meanest of their subjects. Of the former kind, besides this song of the King and the Miller, we have King Henry and the Soldier; King James I. and the Tinker; K. William III. and the Forester, &c. Of the latter sort are K. Alfred and the Shepherd; K. Edward IV. and the Tanner; K. Henry VIII. and the Cobbler, &c.--This is a piece of great antiquity, being written before the time of Edward IV.; and for its genuine humour, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic raanners, is infinitely superior to all that have been since written in imitation of it. Part the First. HENRY, our royall king, would ride a hunting To the greene forest so pleasant and faire, To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping: Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire; Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd For the game, in the same, with good regard. Alla long summers day rode the king pleasantly, With all his princes and nobles eche one; Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye, [home. Till the darke evening forced all to turne Then, at last, riding fast, he had lost quite All his lords in the wood, late in the night. Wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe, With a rude miller he mett at the last : Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham: Sir, quoth the miller, I mean not to jest, Yet I think, what I thinke sooth for to say, You doe not lightlye ride out of your way. Why, what dost thou think of me, quoth our king merrily, Passing thy judgment on me so briefe? Good faith, said the miller, I mean not to flatter thee; I guess thee to be but some gentleman thiefe; Stand thee backe, in the darke; light notadowne, Lest I presently cracke thy knaves crowne. Thou dost abuse me much, quoth the king, sayI am a gentleman; lodging I lacke. [ing thus; Thou hast not, quoth the miller, one groat in thy purse; All thy inheritance hanges on thy backe. If thou beest a true man, then quoth the miller, I sweare by my toll-dish I'll lodge thee all night. Here's my hand, quoth the king, that was lever. Nay, soft, quoth the miller, thou mayst be a sprite. Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake; With none but honest men hands will I take. Thus they went all along unto the miller's house; [souse: Where they were seething of puddings and The miller first entered in, after him went the king, Never came hee in soe smoakye a house. Now, quoth he, let me see here what you are. Quoth our king, Look your fill, and do not spare. I like well thy countenance, thou hast an ho[lye. With my son Richard this night thou shalt Quoth his wife, By my troth, it is a handsome youth, nest face; Yet its best, husband, to deal warilye. Art thou no runaway, prythee, youth, tell? Shew me thy passport, and all shal be well. Then our king presentlye, making lowe cour tesye With his hatt in his hand, thus he did say: I have no passport, nor never was servitor, But a poor courtyer rode out of my way: And for your kindness here offered to mee, I will requite you in everye degree. Then to the miller his wife whispered secretlye, Saying, It seemeth this youth's of good kin, Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners; To turne him out, certainlye, were a great sin. Yea, quoth hee, you may see, he hath some grace, When he doth speake to his betters in place. Well, quo' the miller's wife, young man, ye 're welcome here; And, though I say it, well lodged shall be: Fresh straw will I have laid on thy bed so brave, And good brown hempen sheets likewise, quoth shee. Aye, quoth the good man, and when that is Thou shalt lye with no worse than our own done, [sonne. Nay, first, quoth Richard, goode-fellowe, tell me true, Hast thou noe creepers within thy gay hose? Art thou not lowsy, nor scabby? quoth he Till the tears trickled fast downe from his eyes. Then to their supper were they set orderlye, With hot bag-puddings, and good apple-pyes, Nappy ale, good and stale, in a brown bowle, Which did about the board merrily trowle. Here, quoth the miller, good fellow, I drink to thee, Wife, quoth the miller, fetch me forth Lightfoote, And of his sweetnesse a little we'll taste. A faire ven'son pastye brought she out presentlye. [waste: Eate, quoth the miller, but, sir, make no Here's dainty Lightfoote! In faith, said the I never before cate so dainty a thing. [king, I wis, quoth Richard, no dainty at all it is, For we do eat of it everye day. [like to this? In what place, sayd our king, may be bought We never pay pennye for itt, by my fay: From merry Sherwood we fetch it home here; Now and then we make bold with our king's deer. Then I thinke, sayd our king, that it is venison. Eche foole, quoth Richard, full well may know that: Never are we without two or three in the roof, it knowe. Doubt not, then sayd the king, my promised secresve: The king shall never know more on't for me. A cup of lambs-wool they dranke unto him And to their beds they past presentlie. [then, The nobles, next morning, went all up and downe, For to seeke out the king in every towne. At last, at the millers cott, soone they espy'd him out, As he was mounting upon his faire steede; To whom they came presently, falling down on their knee; Which made the millers heart wofully bleede: Shaking and quaking, before him he stood, Thinking he should have been hang'd by the rood. The king perceiving him fearfully trembling, Drew forthe his sword, but nothing he sed. The miller downe did fall, crying before them all, [head: Doubting the king would have cut off his But he, his kind courtesy for to requite, Gaye him great living, and dubb'd him a knight. Part the Second. WHENAS Our royall king was come home from Nottingham, And with his nobles at Westminster lay; Recounting the sports and pastimes they had In this late progress along on the way; [taken Of them all, great and small, he did protest, The miller of Mansfield's sport liked him best. And now, my lords, quoth the king, I am determined, Against St. George's next sumptuous feast, That this old miller, our new-confirmed knight, With his son Richard, shall here be my guest: For, in this merriment, 'tis my desire To talke with the jolly knight, and the young squire, senger, And grant your ladye her owne hearts desire; And to your sonne Richard good fortune and happiness; That sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire! Our king greets you well, and thus he doth say, You must come to the court on St. Georges day. Therefore, in any case, faile not to be in place. I wis, quoth the miller, this is an odd jest: What should we doe there? faith, I am halfe afraid. [least. I doubt, quoth Richard, to be hang'd at the Nay, quoth the messenger, you doe mistake; Our king he provides a great feast for your sake. Then sayd the miller, By my troth, messenger, Thou hast contented my worshippe full well. Hold, here are three farthings, to quite thy gen tleness For these happy tydings which thou dost tell. Let me see, heare thou mee; tell to our king, We'll wait on his mastershipp in everye thing. The pursuivant smiled at their simplicitye, And, making many leggs, tooke their reward; And his leave taking with great humilitye, To the kings court againe he repair'd'; Shewing unto his grace, merry and free, The knightes most liberall gift and bountie. When he was gone away, thus gan the miller say: Now must we needs be brave, tho' we spend Here come expences and charges indeed! all we have; For of new garments we have great need : Of horses and serving-men we must have store, With bridles and saddles, and twenty things more. Tushe! sir John, quoth his wife, why should you frett or frown? You shall ne'er be att no charges for mee; For I will turn and trim up my old russet gowne, With every thing else as fine as may bee: And on our mill-horses swift we will ride, With pillowes and pannells as we shall provide. In this most stately sort rode they unto the court, Their jolly son Richard rode foremost of all; Who set up, for good hap, a cocks feather in his cap, And so they jetted downe to the king's hall; The merry old miller with hands on his side; His wife like maid Marian did mince at that tide. The king and his nobles, that heard of their coming, Meeting this gallant knight with his brave traine; [lady; Welcome, sir knighte, quoth he, with your gay Good sir John Cockle, once welcome againe: That wast my own bed-fellowe, well it I wot. Yea, sir, quoth Richard, and by the same token, Thou with thy farting didst make the bed hot. Thou whoreson unhappy knave, then quoth the knight, Speak cleanly to our king, or else go sh*t*. The king and his courtiers laugh at this heartily, While the king taketh them both by the hand; With the court dames' and maids, like to the queen of spades, The miller's wife did so orderly stand, A milkmaids courtesye at every word; And downe all the folkes were set to the board. There the king royally, in princelye majestye, Sate at his dinner with joy and delight; When they had eaten well, then he to jesting fell, And in a bowle of wine dranke to the knight: Here's to you both, in wine, ale, and beer; Thanking you heartilye for my good cheer. Quoth sir John Cockle, I'll pledge you a pottle, Were it the best ale in Nottinghamshire. But then, said our king, now I think of a thing, Some of your Lightfoot I would we had here. Ho! ho! quoth Richard, full well I may say it, 'Tis knavery to eate it, and then to betray it. Why art thou angry? quoth our king merrilye; In faith, I take it now very unkind : I thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily. Quoth Dicke, You are like to stay till I have You feed us with twatling dishes so small; Aye, marry, quoth our king, that were a daintye thing, Could a man get but one here for to eat. With that Dick straight arose, and pluck'd one from his hose, Which with heat of his breech gan for to Then sir John Cockle the king called unto him, And of merry Sherwood made him o'erseer; And gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye; Take heed now you steal no more of my deer; And once a quarter let's here have your view; And now, sir John Cockle, I bid you adieu. § 124. The Witches' Song. From Ben Jonson's Masque of Queens, presented at Whitehall, Feb. 2, 1609. It is true, this song of the Witches, falling from the learned pen of Ben Jonson, is rather an extract from the various incantations of classic antiquity, than a display of the opinions of our own vulgar. But let it be observed, that a parcel of learned wiseacres had just before busied themselves on this subject, with our British Solomon, James I., at their head; and these had so ransacked all writers, ancient and modern, and so blended and kneaded together the several superstitions of different times and nations, that those of genuine English growth could no longer be traced out and distinguished. By good luck the whimsical belief of fairies and goblins could furnish no pretences for torturing our fellowcreatures, and therefore we have this handed down to us pure and unsophisticated. 1 Witch. I HAVE beene all day looking after A raven feeding upon a quarter; And, soone as she turn'd her back to the south; I snatch'd this morsell out of her mouth. 2 Witch. I have beene gathering wolves haires, I last night lay all alone O' the ground, to heare the mandrake grone; And pluckt him up, though he grew full low: And, as I had done, the cocke did crow. 4 Witch. And I h' beene chusing out this scull, Under a cradle I did creepe By day, and when the childe was a-sleepe I had a dagger: what did I with that? A murderer yonder was hung in chaines; 8 Witch. I have been getting; and made of his skin 9 Witch. And I ha' been plucking (plants among) I from the jaws of a gardiner's bitch I went to the toade, breeds under the wall, more? Dame. Yes: I have brought, to helpe your vows, Witness those rings and roundelayes And later James came in ; Were of the old profession; Their dances were procession. Or else they take their ease. They never could endure; To pinch such blacke and blue : Now they have left our quarters; § 125. The Fairies Farewell. Who every meale can mend your cheare FAREWELL, rewards and Fairies! Good housewives now may say; For now foule sluts in dairies Doe fare as well as they; And though they sweepe their hearths no less Finds six-pence in her shoe? The fairies lost command! They did but change priests babies, But some have chang'd your land: Who live as changelings ever since, At morning and at evening both When Tom came home from labour, Were lost, if it were addle. § 126. Unfading Beauty. This little beautiful Sounet is reprinted from a small volume of "Poems by THOMAS CAREW, Esq. One of the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty Charles I. Lond. 1640." This elegant, and almost forgotten writer, whose poems have been deservedly revived, died in the prime of his age, in 1639. In the original follows a third stanza, which, not being of general application, nor of equal merit, I have ventured to omit. HEE that loves a rosie cheeke, Or corall lip admires, Fuell to maintaine his fires; Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Kindle never-dying fires; § 127. Song. The Sky-Lark. SHENSTONE. And if she deign thy notes to hear, And if she praise thy matin song, Tell her, the sounds that soothe her ear To Damon's native plains belong. Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd, The bird from Indian groves may shine; But ask the lovely, partial maid, Where are his notes compar'd with thine? Then bid her treat yon witless beau And all his flaunting race with scorn; BEATTIE. § 128. The Hermit. AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin'd, A hermit his nightly complaint thus began: Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resign'd; He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. "Ah! why, thus abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow; And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee to mourn: O soothe him whose pleasures, like thine, pass away! Full quickly they pass, but they never return! "Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays; But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save: But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?" § 129. A Pastoral Ballad. In Four Parts. SHENSTONE. 1. ABSENCE. YE shepherds so cheerful and gay, Nor talk of the change that ye find; -I have left my dear Phillis behind. Now I know what it is to have strove With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love, And to leave her we love and admire. Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each evening repel : Alas! I am faint and forlorn : -I have bade my dear Phillis farewell. Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look, I never once dream'd of my vine: Why wander thus pensively here? The pride of that valley, is flown; My path I could hardly discern ; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day To visit some far-distant shrine, Is happy, nor heard to repine. |