Part 15 (1/2)

This is mine end, I may it not astart;[2]

O brother mine, there is no more to say; Lowly beseeching with mine whole heart For to remember specially, I pray, If it befall my little son to dey[3]

That thou mayst after some mind on us have, Suffer us both be buried in one grave.

I hold him strictly 'tween my armes twain, Thou and Nature laid on me this charge; He, guiltless, muste with me suffer pain, And, since thou art at freedom and at large, Let kindness oure love not so discharge, But have a mind, wherever that thou be, Once on a day upon my child and me.

On thee and me dependeth the tres.p.a.ce Touching our guilt and our great offence, But, welaway! most angelic of face Our childe, young in his pure innocence, Shall against right suffer death's violence, Tender of limbs, G.o.d wot, full guilteless The goodly fair, that lieth here speechless.

A mouth he has, but wordes hath he none; Cannot complain, alas! for none outrage: Nor grutcheth[4] not, but lies here all alone Still as a lamb, most meek of his visage.

What heart of steel could do to him damage, Or suffer him die, beholding the mannere And look benign of his twain even clear.'--

Writing her letter, awhapped[5] all in drede, In her right hand her pen began to quake, And a sharp sword to make her hearte bleed, In her left hand her father hath her take, And most her sorrow was for her childe's sake, Upon whose face in her barme[6] sleeping Full many a tear she wept in complaining.

After all this so as she stood and quoke, Her child beholding mid of her paines' smart, Without abode the sharpe sword she took, And rove herselfe even to the heart; Her child fell down, which mighte not astart, Having no help to succour him nor save, But in her blood theself began to bathe.

[1] 'Abraid:' awake.

[2] 'Astart:' escape.

[3] 'Dey:' die.

[4] 'Grutcheth:' murmureth.

[5] 'Awhapped:' confounded.

[6] 'Barme:' lap.

THE LONDON LYCKPENNY.

Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor Would do for me ought, although I should die: Which seeing, I gat me out of the door, Where Flemings began on me for to cry, 'Master, what will you copen[1] or buy?

Fine felt hats? or spectacles to read?

Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.

Then to Westminster gate I presently went, When the sun was at high prime: Cooks to me they took good intent,[2]

And proffered me bread, with ale and wine, Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine; A fair cloth they 'gan for to spread, But, wanting money, I might not be sped.

Then unto London I did me hie, Of all the land it beareth the price; 'Hot peascods!' one began to cry, 'Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise!'[3]

One bade me come near and buy some spice; Pepper, and saffron they 'gan me beed;[4]

But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then to the Cheap I 'gan me drawn, Where much people I saw for to stand; One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn, Another he taketh me by the hand, 'Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!'

I never was used to such things, indeed; And, wanting money, I might not speed.

Then went I forth by London Stone, Throughout all Canwick Street: Drapers much cloth me offered anon; Then comes me one cried 'Hot sheep's feet;'

One cried mackerel, rushes green, another 'gan greet,[5]

One bade me buy a hood to cover my head; But, for want of money, I might not be sped.

Then I hied me unto East-Cheap, One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie; Pewter pots they clattered on a heap; There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy; Yea by c.o.c.k! nay by c.o.c.k! some began cry; Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed; But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then into Cornhill anon I yode,[6]

Where was much stolen gear among; I saw where hung mine owne hood, That I had lost among the throng; To buy my own hood I thought it wrong: I knew it well, as I did my creed; But, for lack of money, I could not speed.

The taverner took me by the sleeve, 'Sir,' saith he, 'will you our wine a.s.say?'

I answered, 'That can not much me grieve, A penny can do no more than it may;'