Chapter 4

In Carleile dwelt King Arthur, A prince of passing might; And there maintain'd his table round, Beset with many a knight.

And there he kept his Christmas With mirth and princely cheare, When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy Before him did appeare.

A kirtle and a mantle This boy had him upon, With brooches, rings, and owches, Full daintily bedone.

He had a sarke of silk About his middle meet; And thus, with seemely curtesy, He did King Arthur greet.

"God speed thee, brave King Arthur, Thus feasting in thy bowre; And Guenever thy goodly queen, That fair and peerlesse flowre.

"Ye gallant lords, and lordings, I wish you all take heed, Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose, Should prove a cankred weed."

Then straitway from his bosome A little wand he drew; And with it eke a mantle Of wondrous shape and hew.

"Now have you here, King Arthur, Have this here of mee, And give unto thy comely queen, All-shapen as you see.

"No wife it shall become, That once hath been to blame." Then every knight in Arthur's court Slye glaunced at his dame.

And first came Lady Guenever, The mantle she must trye. This dame, she was new-fangled, And of a roving eye.

When she had tane the mantle, And all was with it cladde, From top to toe it shiver'd down, As tho' with sheers beshradde.

One while it was too long, Another while too short, And wrinkled on her shoulders In most unseemly sort.

Now green, now red it seemed, Then all of sable hue. "Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur, "I think thou beest not true."

Down she threw the mantle, Ne longer would not stay; But, storming like a fury, To her chamber flung away.

She curst the whoreson weaver, That had the mantle wrought: And doubly curst the froward impe, Who thither had it brought.

"I had rather live in desarts Beneath the green-wood tree; Than here, base king, among thy groomes, The sport of them and thee."

Sir Kay call'd forth his lady, And bade her to come near: "Yet, dame, if thou be guilty, I pray thee now forbear."

This lady, pertly gigling, With forward step came on, And boldly to the little boy With fearless face is gone.

When she had tane the mantle, With purpose for to wear; It shrunk up to her shoulder, And left her b--- side bare.

Then every merry knight, That was in Arthur's court, Gib'd, and laught, and flouted, To see that pleasant sport.

Downe she threw the mantle, No longer bold or gay, But with a face all pale and wan, To her chamber slunk away.

Then forth came an old knight, A pattering o'er his creed; And proffer'd to the little boy Five nobles to his meed;

"And all the time of Christmass Plumb-porridge shall be thine, If thou wilt let my lady fair Within the mantle shine."

A saint his lady seemed, With step demure and slow, And gravely to the mantle With mincing pace doth goe.

When she the same had taken, That was so fine and thin, It shrivell'd all about her, And show'd her dainty skin.

Ah! little did HER mincing, Or HIS long prayers bestead; She had no more hung on her, Than a tassel and a thread.

Down she threwe the mantle, With terror and dismay, And, with a face of scarlet, To her chamber hyed away.

Sir Cradock call'd his lady, And bade her to come neare: "Come, win this mantle, lady, And do me credit here.

"Come, win this mantle, lady, For now it shall be thine, If thou hast never done amiss, Sith first I made thee mine."

The lady, gently blushing, With modest grace came on, And now to trye the wondrous charm Courageously is gone.

When she had tane the mantle, And put it on her backe, About the hem it seemed To wrinkle and to cracke.

"Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle! And shame me not for nought, I'll freely own whate'er amiss, Or blameful I have wrought.

"Once I kist Sir Cradocke Beneathe the green-wood tree: Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth Before he married mee."

When thus she had her shriven, And her worst fault had told, The mantle soon became her Right comely as it shold.

Most rich and fair of colour, Like gold it glittering shone: And much the knights in Arthur's court Admir'd her every one.

Then towards King Arthur's table The boy he turn'd his eye: Where stood a boar's head garnished With bayes and rosemarye.

When thrice he o'er the boar's head His little wand had drawne, Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife Can carve this head of brawne."

Then some their whittles rubbed On whetstone, and on hone: Some threwe them under the table, And swore that they had none.

Sir Cradock had a little knife, Of steel and iron made; And in an instant thro' the skull He thrust the shining blade.

He thrust the shining blade Full easily and fast; And every knight in Arthur's court A morsel had to taste.

The boy brought forth a horne, All golden was the rim: Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can Set mouth unto the brim.

"No cuckold can this little horne Lift fairly to his head; But or on this, or that side, He shall the liquor shed."

Some shed it on their shoulder, Some shed it on their thigh; And hee that could not hit his mouth, Was sure to hit his eye.

Thus he, that was a cuckold, Was known of every man: But Cradock lifted easily, And wan the golden can.

Thus boar's head, horn and mantle, Were this fair couple's meed: And all such constant lovers, God send them well to speed.

Then down in rage came Guenever, And thus could spightful say, "Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully Hath borne the prize away.

"See yonder shameless woman, That makes herselfe so clean: Yet from her pillow taken Thrice five gallants have been.

"Priests, clarkes, and wedded men, Have her lewd pillow prest: Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth Must beare from all the rest."

Then bespake the little boy, Who had the same in hold: "Chastize thy wife, King Arthur, Of speech she is too bold:

"Of speech she is too bold, Of carriage all too free; Sir King, she hath within thy hall A cuckold made of thee.

"All frolick light and wanton She hath her carriage borne: And given thee for a kingly crown To wear a cuckold's horne."

THE HEIR OF LINNE

PART THE FIRST

Lithe and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne: It is of a lord of faire Scotland, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.

His father was a right good lord, His mother a lady of high degree; But they, alas! were dead, him froe, And he lov'd keeping companie.

To spend the daye with merry cheare, To drinke and revell every night, To card and dice from eve to morne, It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.

To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, To alwaye spend and never spare, I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, Of gold and fee he mote be bare.

Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne Till all his gold is gone and spent; And he maun sell his landes so broad, His house, and landes, and all his rent.

His father had a keen stewarde, And John o' the Scales was called hee: But John is become a gentel-man, And John has gott both gold and fee.

Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, Let nought disturb thy merry cheere; Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, Good store of gold Ile give thee heere,

My gold is gone, my money is spent; My lande nowe take it unto thee: Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, And thine for aye my lande shall bee.

Then John he did him to record draw, And John he cast him a gods-pennie; But for every pounde that John agreed, The lande, I wis, was well worth three.

He told him the gold upon the borde, He was right glad his land to winne; The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ile be the lord of Linne.

Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, All but a poore and lonesome lodge, That stood far off in a lonely glenne.

For soe he to his father hight. My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee, Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:

But sweare me nowe upon the roode, That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; For when all the world doth frown on thee, Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.

The heire of Linne is full of golde: And come with me, my friends, sayd hee, Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.

They ranted, drank, and merry made, Till all his gold it waxed thinne; And then his friendes they slunk away; They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.

He had never a penny in his purse, Never a penny left but three, And one was brass, another was lead, And another it was white money.

Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, For when I was the lord of Linne, I never wanted gold nor fee.

But many a trustye friend have I, And why shold I feel dole or care? Ile borrow of them all by turnes, Soe need I not be never bare.

But one, I wis, was not at home; Another had payd his gold away; Another call'd him thriftless loone, And bade him sharpely wend his way.

Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, Now well-aday, and woe is me; For when I had my landes so broad, On me they liv'd right merrilee.

To beg my bread from door to door I wis, it were a brenning shame: To rob and steale it were a sinne: To worke my limbs I cannot frame.

Now Ile away to lonesome lodge, For there my father bade me wend; When all the world should frown on mee I there shold find a trusty friend.

PART THE SECOND

Away then hyed the heire of Linne Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, Untill he came to lonesome lodge, That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.

He looked up, he looked downe, In hope some comfort for to winne: But bare and lothly were the walles. Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne.

The little windowe dim and darke Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; No shimmering sunn here ever shone; No halesome breeze here ever blew.

No chair, ne table he mote spye, No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, Nought save a rope with renning noose, That dangling hung up o'er his head.

And over it in broad letters, These words were written so plain to see: "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, And brought thyselfe to penurie?

"All this my boding mind misgave, I therefore left this trusty friend: Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, And all thy shame and sorrows end."

Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, Sorely shent was the heire of Linne, His heart, I wis, was near to brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne.

Never a word spake the heire of Linne, Never a word he spake but three: "This is a trusty friend indeed, And is right welcome unto mee."

Then round his necke the corde he drewe, And sprung aloft with his bodie: When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, And to the ground came tumbling hee.

Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, Ne knewe if he were live or dead: At length he looked, and saw a bille, And in it a key of gold so redd.

He took the bill, and lookt it on, Strait good comfort found he there: It told him of a hole in the wall, In which there stood three chests in-fere.

Two were full of the beaten golde, The third was full of white money; And over them in broad letters These words were written so plaine to see:

"Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; Amend thy life and follies past; For but thou amend thee of thy life, That rope must be thy end at last."

And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne; And let it bee, but if I amend: For here I will make mine avow, This reade shall guide me to the end.

Away then went with a merry cheare, Away then went the heire of Linne; I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.

And when he came to John o' the Scales, Upp at the speere then looked hee; There sate three lords upon a rowe, Were drinking of the wine so free.

And John himself sate at the bord-head, Because now lord of Linne was hee. I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend mee.

Away, away, thou thriftless loone; Away, away, this may not bee: For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, If ever I trust thee one pennìe.

Then bespake the heire of Linne, To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: Madame, some almes on me bestowe, I pray for sweet Saint Charitìe.

Away, away, thou thriftless loone, I swear thou gettest no almes of mee; For if we shold hang any losel heere, The first we wold begin with thee.

Then bespake a good fellòwe, Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; Some time thou wast a well good lord;

Some time a good fellow thou hast been, And sparedst not thy gold nor fee; Therefore He lend thee forty pence, And other forty if need bee.

And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, To let him sit in thy companie: For well I wot thou hadst his land, And a good bargain it was to thee.

Up then spake him John o' the Scales, All wood he answer'd him againe: Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, But I did lose by that bargàine.

And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, Before these lords so faire and free, Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.

I draw you to record, lords, he said. With that he cast him a gods pennie: Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, And here, good John, is thy monèy.

And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, And layd them down upon the bord: All woe begone was John o' the Scales, Soe shent he cold say never a word.

He told him forth the good red gold, He told it forth with mickle dinne. The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.

Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe, Forty pence thou didst lend me: Now I am againe the lord of Linne, And forty pounds I will give thee.

He make the keeper of my forrest, Both of the wild deere and the tame; For but I reward thy bounteous heart, I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.

Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales: Now welladay! and woe is my life! Yesterday I was lady of Linne, Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.

Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee: Christs curse light on me, if ever again I bring my lands in jeopardy.

KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID

I Read that once in Affrica A princely wight did raine, Who had to name Cophetua, As poets they did faine: From natures lawes he did decline, For sure he was not of my mind. He cared not for women-kinde, But did them all disdaine. But, marke, what hapened on a day, As he out of his window lay, He saw a beggar all in gray, The which did cause his paine.

The blinded boy, that shootes so trim, From heaven downe did hie; He drew a dart and shot at him, In place where he did lye: Which soone did pierse him to the quicke. And when he felt the arrow pricke, Which in his tender heart did sticke, He looketh as he would dye. What sudden chance is this, quoth he, That I to love must subject be, Which never thereto would agree, But still did it defie?

Then from the window he did come, And laid him on his bed, A thousand heapes of care did runne Within his troubled head: For now he meanes to crave her love, And now he seekes which way to proove How he his fancie might remoove, And not this beggar wed. But Cupid had him so in snare, That this poor begger must prepare A salve to cure him of his care, Or els he would be dead.

And, as he musing thus did lye, He thought for to devise How he might have her companye, That so did 'maze his eyes. In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life; For surely thou shalt be my wife, Or else this hand with bloody knife The Gods shall sure suffice. Then from his bed he soon arose, And to his pallace gate he goes; Full little then this begger knowes When she the king espies.

The Gods preserve your majesty, The beggers all gan cry: Vouchsafe to give your charity Our childrens food to buy. The king to them his pursse did cast, And they to part it made great haste; This silly woman was the last That after them did hye. The king he cal'd her back againe, And unto her he gave his chaine; And said, With us you shal remaine Till such time as we dye:

For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife, And honoured for my queene; With thee I meane to lead my life, As shortly shall be seene: Our wedding shall appointed be, And every thing in its degree: Come on, quoth he, and follow me, Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he. Penelophon, O king, quoth she; With that she made a lowe courtsey; A trim one as I weene.

Thus hand in hand along they walke Unto the king's pallace: The king with curteous comly talke This beggar doth imbrace: The begger blusheth scarlet red, And straight againe as pale as lead, But not a word at all she said, She was in such amaze. At last she spake with trembling voyce, And said, O king, I doe rejoyce That you wil take me from your choyce, And my degree's so base.

And when the wedding day was come, The king commanded strait The noblemen both all and some Upon the queene to wait. And she behaved herself that day, As if she had never walkt the way; She had forgot her gown of gray, Which she did weare of late. The proverbe old is come to passe, The priest, when he begins his masse, Forgets that ever clerke he was; He knowth not his estate.

Here you may read, Cophetua, Though long time fancie-fed, Compelled by the blinded boy The begger for to wed: He that did lovers lookes disdaine, To do the same was glad and faine, Or else he would himselfe have slaine, In storie, as we read. Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, But pitty now thy servant heere, Least that it hap to thee this yeare, As to that king it did.

And thus they led a quiet life Duringe their princely raigne; And in a tombe were buried both, As writers sheweth plaine. The lords they tooke it grievously, The ladies tooke it heavily, The commons cryed pitiously, Their death to them was paine, Their fame did sound so passingly, That it did pierce the starry sky, And throughout all the world did flye To every princes realme.

SIR ANDREW BARTON

'When Flora with her fragrant flowers Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, And Neptune with his daintye showers Came to present the monthe of Maye;' King Henrye rode to take the ayre, Over the river of Thames past hee; When eighty merchants of London came, And downe they knelt upon their knee.

"O yee are welcome, rich merchants; Good saylors, welcome unto mee." They swore by the rood, they were saylors good, But rich merchànts they cold not bee: "To France nor Flanders dare we pass: Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare; And all for a rover that lyes on the seas, Who robbs us of our merchant ware."

King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde, And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might, "I thought he had not beene in the world, Durst have wrought England such unright." The merchants sighed, and said, alas! And thus they did their answer frame, He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas, And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name.

The king lookt over his left shoulder, And an angrye look then looked hee: "Have I never a lorde in all my realme, Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?" Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes; Yea, that dare I with heart and hand; If it please your grace to give me leave, Myselfe wil be the only man.

Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed: Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare. "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail, Or before my prince I will never appeare." Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, And chuse them over my realme so free; Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, To guide the great shipp on the sea.

The first man, that Lord Howard chose, Was the ablest gunner in all the realm, Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten; Good Peter Simon was his name. Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea, To bring home a traytor live or dead: Before all others I have chosen thee; Of a hundred gunners to be the head.

If you, my lord, have chosen mee Of a hundred gunners to be the head, Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, If I misse my marke one shilling bread. My lord then chose a boweman rare, "Whose active hands had gained fame." In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne, And William Horseley was his name.

Horseley, said he, I must with speede Go seeke a traytor on the sea, And now of a hundred bowemen brave To be the head I have chosen thee. If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee Of a hundred bowemen to be the head On your main-mast He hanged bee, If I miss twelvescore one penny bread.

With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold, This noble Howard is gone to the sea; With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, Out at Thames mouth sayled he. And days he scant had sayled three, Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand, But there he mett with a noble shipp, And stoutely made itt stay and stand.

Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said, Now who thou art, and what's thy name; And shewe me where they dwelling is: And whither bound, and whence thou came. My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; I and my shipp doe both belong To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne.

Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt, As thou hast sayled by daye and by night, Of a Scottish rover on the seas; Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight! Then ever he sighed, and said alas! With a grieved mind, and well away! But over-well I knowe that wight, I was his prisoner yesterday.

As I was sayling uppon the sea, A Burdeaux voyage for to fare; To his hach-borde he clasped me, And robd me of all my merchant ware: And mickle debts, God wot, I owe, And every man will have his owne; And I am nowe to London bounde, Of our gracious king to beg a boone.

That shall not need, Lord Howard sais; Lett me but once that robber see, For every penny tane thee froe It shall be doubled shillings three. Nowe God forefend, the merchant said, That you should seek soe far amisse! God keepe you out of that traitors hands! Full litle ye wott what a man hee is.

Hee is brasse within, and steele without, With beames on his topcastle stronge; And eighteen pieces of ordinance He carries on each side along: And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide; His pinnace beareth ninescore men, And fifteen canons on each side.