honour sworne,

Thatt thou thalt surelie die”.

“Wee all must die”, quod brave Syr CHARLES;

“Of thatte I’m not affearde;

Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?

Thanke JESU, I’m prepar’d.

Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee’s not,

I’de sooner die to-daie

’Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,

Tho’ I shoulde lyve for aie”.

Thenne CANTERLONE hee dydd goe out,

To telle the maior straite

To gett all thynges ynne reddyness

For goode Syr CHARLESES fate.

Thenne Maisterr CANYNGE saughte the kynge,

And felle down onne hys knee;

“I’m come”, quod hee, “unto your grace

To move your clemencye”.

Thenne quod the kynge, ’Youre tale speke out,

“You have been much oure friende;

Whatever youre request may bee,

’Wee wylle to ytte attende”.

“My nobile leige! alle my request

Ys for a nobile knyghte,

Who, tho’ may hap hee has donne wronge,

He thoghte ytte stylle was ryghte.

Hee has a spouse and children twaine,

Alle rewyn’d are for aie;

Yff thatt you are resolv’d to lett

CHARLES BAWDIN die to-daie”.

“Speke nott of such a traytour vile”,

The kynge ynne furie sayde;

“’Before the evening starre doth sheene,

BAWDIN shall loose hys hedde.

Justice does loudlie for hym calle,

And hee shalle have hys meede:

Speke, Maister CANYNGE! Whatte thynge else

Att present doe you neede?”

“My nobile leige!” goode CANYNGE sayde,

“Leave justice to our Godde,

And laye the yronne rule asyde;

Be thyne the olyve rodde.

Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines,

The best were synners grete;

CHRIST’S vycarr only knowes ne synne,

Ynne alle thys mortall state.

Lett mercie rule thyne infante reign;

Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;

From race to race thy familie

Alle sov’reigns shall endure.

But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou

Beginne thy infante reign;

Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows

Wylle never long remayne”.

“CANYNGE, awaie! thys traytour vile

Has scorn’’d my power and mee;

Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne

’Intreate my clemencye?”

“My nobile leige! the trulie brave

Wylle val’rous actions prize,

Respect a brave and nobile mynde,

Altho’ ynne enemies”.

“CANYNGE, awale! By Godde ynne Heav’n

Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,

I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade

Whilst thys Syr CHARLES dothe lyve.

By MARIE, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav’’n,

Thys sunne shall be hys laste”.

Thenne CANYNGE dropt a brinie teare,

And from the presence paste.

Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,

Hee to Syr CHARLES dydd goe,

And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole,

And teares beganne to flowe.

“Wee all must die”, quod brave Syr CHARLES;

“Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;

Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

Of all wee mortall menne.

Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul

Runns overr att thyne eye;

Is ytte for my most welcome doome

’Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?”

Quod godlie CANYNGE, “I doe weepe,

’Thatt thou so soone must dye;

And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;

Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye”.

“’Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye

From godlie fountaines sprynge;

Dethe I despise, and alle the power

Of EDWARDE, traytor kynge.

Whan throgh the tyrant’s welcom means

I shall resigne my lyfe,

The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde

For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.

Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,

Thys was appointed mee;

Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge

Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee?

Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,

Whan thousands dy’d arounde;

Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode

Imbrew’d the fatten’d grounde.

How dydd I knowe thatt ev’ry darte,

Thatt cutte the airie waie,

Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,

And close myne eyes for aie?

And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,

’Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?

No! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere,

Bee alle the manne display’d”.

“Ah, goddelyke HENRIE! Godde forefende,

And guarde thee and thye sonne,

Yff ’tis hys wylle, but yff ’tis nott,

Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

My honest friende, my faulte has beene

To serve Godde and mye prynce;

And thatt I no tyme-server am,

My dethe wylle soone convynce.

Ynne Londonne citye was I born;

Of parents of grete note;

My fadre dydd a nobile armes

’Emblazon onne hys cote.

I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone

Where soone I hope to goe;

Where wee for ever shall bee blest,

From oute the reech of woe

Hee taughte mee justice and the laws

Wyth pitie to unite;

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe

The wronge cause fromm the ryghte.

Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande

To feede the hungrie poore,