Part 11 (1/2)

She never said to me amiss, Whom now hath slain this beast horrible!

And for it is an impossible To find again e'er such a wife I will live sole all my life.

”For now of newe, for their prow, {88b} The wives of full high prudence Have of a.s.sent made their avow T' exile for ever patience, And cried wolfs-head obedience, To make Chichevache fail Of them to finde more vitail.

Now Chichevache may fast long And die for all her cruelty, Women have made themselves so strong For to outrage humility.

O silly husbands, wo ben ye!

Such as can have no patience Against your wives violence.

If that ye suffer, ye be but dead, Bicorn awaiteth you so sore; Eke of your wives go stand in dread, If ye gainsay them any more!

And thus ye stand, and have done yore, Of life and death betwixt coveyne {89} Linked in a double chain.

BEST TO BE BLYTH BY WILLIAM DUNBAR.

Full oft I muse, and hes in thocht How this fals Warld is ay on flocht, Quhair no thing ferme is nor degest; {91a} {91d} And when I haif my mynd all socht, For to be blyth me think it best.

This warld ever dois flicht and wary, {91b} Fortoun sa fast hir quheill dois cary, Na tyme but turning can tak rest; {91e} For quhois fats change suld none be sary, For to be blyth me think it best.

Wald men considdir in mynd richt weill, Or Fortoun on him turn hir quheill, That erdly honour may nocht lest, His fall less panefull he suld feill; For to be blyth me think it best.

Quha with this warld dois warsill and stryfe, {91c} And dois his dayis in dolour dryfe, Thocht he in lordschip be possest, He levis bot ane wrechit lyfe: For to be blyth me think it best.

Off warldis gud and grit richess, Quhat fruct hes man but merriness?

Thocht he this warld had eist and west, All wer povertie but glaidness: For to be blyth me think it best.

Quho suld for tynsall drowp or de, {92a} For thyng that is bot vanitie; Sen to the lyfe that evir dois lest, Heir is bot twynkling of an ee: For to be blyth me think it best.

Had I for warldis unkyndness In hairt tane ony heviness, Or fro my plesans bene opprest; I had bene deid lang syne dowtless: For to be blyth me think it best.

How evir this warld do change and vary, Lat us in hairt nevir moir be sary, But evir be reddy and addrest To pa.s.s out of this frawfull fary: {92b} For to be blyth me think it best.

DOWSABELL BY MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Far in the country of Arden There woned a knight, hight Ca.s.samen, {93d} As bold as Isenbras: Fell was he and eager bent In battle and in tournament As was good Sir Topas.

He had, as antique stories tell, A daughter cleped Dowsabell, A maiden fair and free.

And for she was her fathers heir, Full well she was yconned the leir {93a} {93b} Of mickle courtesie.

The silk well couth she twist and twine, And make the fine marche pine, {93c} And with the needle work; And she couth help the priest to say His matins on a holiday, And sing a psalm in kirk.

She ware a frock of frolic green Might well become a maiden queen, Which seemly was to see; A hood to that so neat and fine, In colour like the columbine, Inwrought full featously.

Her features all as fresh above As is the gra.s.s that grows by Dove, And lithe as la.s.s of Kent.

Her skin as soft as Lemster wool, {94a} And white as snow on Peakish hull, {94b} Or swan that swims in Trent.

This maiden, in a morn betime, Went forth, when May was in the prime, To get sweet setiwall, {94c} The honeysuckle, the harlock, {94d} The lily and the lady-smock, {94k} To deck her summer-hall. {94e}