Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie

The hungrie fromme my doore.

And none can saye, butt alle mye lyfe

I have hys wordyes kept;

And summ’d the actyonns of the daie

Eche nyghte before I slept.

I have a spouse, goe aske of her,

Yff I defyl’d her bedde?

I have a kynge, and none can laie

Blacke treason onne my hedde.

Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,

Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;

Whie should I thenne appeare dismay’d

To leave thys worlde of payne?

Ne! hapless HENRIE! I rejoyce,

I shalle ne see thye dethe;

Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause

Doe I resign my brethe.

Oh, fickle people! rewyn’d londe!

Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;

Whyle RICHARD’S sonnes exalt themselyes,

Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.

Saie, were ye tyr’d of godlie peace,

And godlie HENRIE’S reigne,

’Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies

For those of bloude and peyne?

Whatte tho’ I onne a sledde bee drawne,

And mangled by a hynde,

I doe defye the traytor’s pow’r,

Hee can ne harm my mynde;

Whatte tho’, uphoisted onne a pole,

Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,

And ne ryche monument of brasse

CHARLES BAWDIN’S name shall bear;

Yett ynne the holie booke above,

Whyche tyme can’t eate awaie,

There wythe the sarvants of the Lorde

Mye name shall lyve for aie.

Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne

I leave thys mortall lyfe

’Farewell, vayne worlde, and all that’s deare,

Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!

Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes,

As e’er the moneth of Maie;

Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,

Wyth my dere wyfe to staie”.

Quod CANYGE, “’Tys a goodlie thynge

To bee prepar’d to die;

And from thys world of peyne and grefe

’To Godde ynne Heav’n to flie”.

And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,

And claryonnes to sounde;

Syr CHARLES hee herde the horses feete

A prauncyng onne the grounde.

And just before the officers,

His lovynge wyfe came ynne,

Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,

Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

“Sweet FLORENCE! nowe I praie forbere

Ynne quiet lett mee die;

Praie Godde, thatt ev’ry Christian soule

Maye looke onne dethe as I.

Sweet FLORENCE! why these brinie teeres?

Theye washe my soule awaie,

And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,

Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

‘Tys butt a journie I shall goe

Untoe the lande of blysse;

Nowe, as a proof of husbande’s love,

Receive thys holie kysse”.

Thenne FLORENCE, fault’ring ynne her saie,

Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,

“Ah, cruele EDWARDE! bloudie kynge!

’My herte ys welle nyghe broke.

’Ah, sweete Syr CHARLES! why wylt thou goe,

’Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?

The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,

Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe”.

And nowe the officers came ynne

To brynge Syr CHARLES awaie

Whoe turnedd toe his lovynge wyfe,

And thus toe her dydd saie

“’I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

Truste thou ynne Godde above,

And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde,

And ynne theyre hertes hym love.

Teache them to runne the nobile race

Thatt I theyre fader runne:

FLORENCE! shou’d dethe thee take — adieu!

Yee officers, leade onne”.

Thenne FLORENCE rav’d as anie madde,

And dydd her tresses tere;

“Oh! staie, mye husbande! lorde! and lyfe!” —

Syr CHARLES thenne dropt a teare.

’Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud,

Shee fellen onne the floore;

Syr CHARLES exerted alle hys myghte,

And march’d fromm oute the dore.

Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne

Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;

Lookes, thatt enshone ne moe concern

Thanne anie ynne the strete.

Before hym went the council-menne,

Ynne scarlett robes and golde

And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,

Muche glorious to beholde.

The Freers of Seincte AUGUSTYNE next

Appeared to the fyghte,

Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,

Of godlie monkysh plyghte.

Ynne diffraunt parts a godlie psaume

Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt;

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,

Who tun’d the strunge bataunt.

Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came;

Echone the bowe dydd bende,

From rescue of kynge HENRIES friends

Syr CHARLES forr to defend.

Bolde as a lyon came Syr CHARLES;

Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde,

Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,

Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde.

Behynde hym fyve-and-twentye moe

Of archers stronge and stoute,

Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,

Marched ynne goodlie route.

Seincte JAMESES Freers marched next,

Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;

Behynde theyre backs syx mynstrelles came,

Who tun’d the strunge bataunt.

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck’t;

And theyre attendyng menne echone,

Lyke Easterne princes