Playful Poems Part 11

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}

Thus, as she wandered here and there, And picked of the bloomy brere, She chanced to espy A shepherd sitting on a bank, Like chanticleer he crowed crank, {94f} And piped full merrily.

He learned his sheep as he him list, {94g} When he would whistle in his fist, To feed about him round, Whilst he full many a carol sang, Until the fields and meadows rang, And that the woods did sound.

In favour this same shepherd swain Was like the bedlam Tamburlaine Which held proud kings in awe.

But meek as any lamb mought be, And innocent of ill as he Whom his lewd brother slaw.

This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloke, Which was of the finest loke That could be cut with shear; His mittens were of bauzon's skin, {94h} His c.o.c.kers were of cordiwin, {94i} {94j} His hood of minivere.

His awl and lingell in a thong; {95a} His tarbox on his broadbelt hung, His breech of Cointree blue.

Full crisp and curled were his locks, His brows as white as Albion rocks, So like a lover true.

And piping still he spent the day So merry as the popinjay, Which liked Dowsabell, That would she ought, or would she nought, This lad would never from her thought, She in love-longing fell.

At length she tucked up her frock, White as the lily was her smock; She drew the shepherd nigh; But then the shepherd piped a good, That all the sheep forsook their food, To hear his melodie.

"Thy sheep," quoth she, "cannot be lean That have a jolly shepherd swain The which can pipe so well."

"Yea, but," saith he, "their shepherd may, If piping thus he pine away In love of Dowsabell."

"Of love, fond boy, take then no keep," {95b} Quoth she; "Look well unto thy sheep, Lest they should hap to stray."

Quoth he, "So had I done full well, Had I not seen fair Dowsabell Come forth to gather may."

With that she 'gan to vail her head, Her cheeks were like the roses red, But not a word she said.

With that the shepherd 'gan to frown, He threw his pretty pipes adown, And on the ground him laid.

Saith she, "I may not stay till night And leave my summer-hall undight, And all for love of thee."

"My cote," saith he, "nor yet my fold Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold, Except thou favour me."

Saith she, "Yet liever were I dead Than I should [yield me to be wed], And all for love of men."

Saith he, "Yet are you too unkind If in your heart you cannot find To love us now and then.

"And I to thee will be as kind As Colin was to Rosalind Of courtesy the flower."

"Then will I be as true," quoth she, "As ever maiden yet might be Unto her paramour."

With that she bent her snow-white knee Down by the shepherd kneeled she, And him she sweetly kist.

With that the shepherd whooped for joy.

Quoth he, "There's never shepherd's boy That ever was so blist."

NYMPHIDIA, THE COURT OF FAIRY By MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Old Chaucer doth of Topas tell, Mad Rabelais of Pantagruel, A later third of Dowsabel With such poor trifles playing; Others the like have laboured at, Some of this thing and some of that, And many of they knew not what, But what they may be saying.