Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? I pray you, tell anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you alone.

A.

It standeth so; a dede is do, whereof grete harm shall growe;

My destiny is for to dy a shamefull deth, I trowe; Or elles to fle: the one must be; none other way I knowe, [my bowe. But to withdrawe as an outlawe, and take me to Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true! none other rede I can; [man. For I must to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed B.

O Lorde, what is this worldys blysse, that chaungeth as the Mone! [none. The somers day in lusty May is derked before the I here you say, "Farewell!" Nay, nay, we départ [ye done? Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go? alas, what have All my welfare to sorowe and care sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone; [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you

not so sone:

you

Yet I you rede to take good hede what men wyll thynke and say: [away: Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde, that ye be gone Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, in grene wode to play; [make delay: And that ye myght from your delyght no lenger Rather than ye sholde thus for me be called an yll woman, [man. Yet wolde I to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed B.

Though it be songe of olde and yonge. that I sholde be to blame, [of my name: Theyrs be the charge that speke so large in hurtynge For I wyll prove, that faythfull love it is devoyd

of shame;

[the same; In your distresse, and hevynessc, to part wyth you, To shewe all tho that do nat so, true lovers are they [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but

none:

you

A.

I counceyle you, remember howe it is no mayden's lawe, [outlawe: Nothyne to dout, but to renne out to wode with an For ye must there in your hand bere a bowe, redy to drawe; [and awe; And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve, ever in drede Wherby to you grete harme myght growe: yet had I lever than, [man. That I had to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed B. I say nat, nay, but as ye say, it is no mayden's lore: But love may make me, for your sake, as I have sayd before, [in store; To come on fote, to hunt, and shote, to get us mete For so that I your company may have, I aske no [ony stone; From which to part, it maketh my hart as cold as For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you alone.

more;

Yet take good hede; for ever I drede that ye coude nat sustayne [frost, the rayne, The thornie wayes, the depe valèies, the snowe, the The colde, the hete: for, dry or wete, we must lodge on the playne; [twayne: And, us above, none other rofe but a brake, bush, or Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve; and ye wolde gladly than, [man. That I had to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed B.

Syth I have here been partynère with you of joy and blysse,

I must also parte of your wo endure, as reson is: Yet am I sure of one pleasùre; and, shortely, it is this,[fare amysse. That, where ye be, me semeth, pardè, I coude not Without more speche, I you beseche that we were shortely gone; [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you

A.

Yf ye goo thyder, ye must consider,-whan ye have lust to dyne, [ale, ne wine; There shall no mete, be for to gete, neyther bere

Ne shetes clene to lye betwene, maden of threde and twyne; [your hed and myne: None other house, but leves and bowes, to cover O myne hart swete, this evyll dyète sholde make [nyshed man

you pale and wan;

Ye were betrayed: wherfore, good mayd, the best rede that I can, [man. Is, that I to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed B.

B.

Amonge the wylde dere, such an archère as men say that ye be, [plente? May ye nat fayle of good vitayle, where is so grete And water clere of the ryvère shall be full swete to me; [shall see: With which in hele I shall ryght wele endure, as ye And, or we go, a bedde or two I can provyde anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you alone. A.

Lo yet, before, ye must do more, yf ye wyll go with [the kne:

me:

Myne own dere love, I se the prove that ye be kynde, and true; [ever I knewe. Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe, the best that Be mery and glad, be no more sad, the case is chaunged newe; [have cause to rewe: For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe, ye sholde Be nat dismayed; whatsoever I sayd to you, whan I began, [man.

I wyll not to the grene wode go, I am no banyshed

B. These tydings be more gladder to me than to be made a quene, [sene,

Yf I were sure they sholde endure: but it is often Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke the wordes on the splene : [me I wene: Ye shape some wyle, me to begyle, and stele from Than were the case worse than it was, and I more wo-begone; [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you

A. Ye shall nat nede further to drede; I will not dysparage [a lynage. You, (God defende!) syth you descend of so grete Nowe understande,· -to Westmarlande, which is myne herytage, [maryage

I wyll you bringe; and with a rynge, by way of I wyll you take, and lady make, as shortely as I [man. Thus have ye won an erlys son, and not a banyshed

can:

B.

And (all due honours faithfully discharg'd)

kynde, and stable:

Late never man reprove them than, But, rather, pray God, that we may to them be comfortable, [be charytable. Which sometyme proved such as he loved, yf they Forsoth, men wolde that women sholde be meke to them ech one; [but hym alone. Moche more ought they to God obey, and serve

HENRY AND EMMA,
А РОЕМ,

UPON THE MODEL OF THE NUT-BROWN MAID,

TO CLOE,

THOU, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand,
I take the sprightly reed, and sing, and play,
Careless of what the censuring world may say:
Bright Cloe, object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou awhile unbend thy serious brow?
Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heavenly smile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old;
Though since her youth three hundred years have
At thy desire, she shall again be rais'd; [roll'd:
And her reviving charms in lasting verse be prais'd.
No longer man of woman shall complain,
That he may love, and not be lov'd again:
That we in vain the fickle sex pursue,
Who change the constant lover for the new.
Whatever has been writ, whatever said,
Of female passion feign'd, or faith decay'd
Henceforth shall in my verse refuted stand,
Be said to winds, or writ upon the sand.
And, while my notes to future times proclaim
Unconquer'd love, and ever-during flame,
O fairest of the sex! be thou my Muse:
Deign on my work thy influence to diffuse.
Let me partake the blessings I rehearse,
And grant me, love, the just reward of verse!

As beauty's potent queen, with every grace,
That once was Emma's, has adorn'd thy face;
And as her son has to my bosom dealt
That constant flame, which faithful Henry felt:
O let the story with thy life agree:
Let men once more the bright example see;
What Emma was to him, be thou to me.
Nor send me by thy frown from her I love,
Distant and sad, a banish'd man to rove.
But, oh! with pity, long-entreated, crown

My pains and hopes; and, when thou say'st that

With a new mark, the witness of his toil,
And no inglorious part of foreign spoil.

From the loud camp retir'd, and noisy court,
In honourable ease and rural sport,
Nor found they lagg'd too slow, nor flew too fast.
The remnant of his days he safely past;
He made his wish with his estate comply,
Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die.

One child he had, a daughter chaste and fair,
His age's comfort, and his fortune's heir.
They call'd her Emma; for the beauteous dame,
Who gave the virgin birth, had borne the name
The name th' indulgent father doubly lov'd:
For in the child the mother's charms improv'd.
Yet as, when little, round his knees she play'd,
He call'd her oft, in sport, his Nut-brown Maid,
The friends and tenants took the fondling word,
(As still they please, who imitate their lord):
Usage confirm'd what fancy had begun;
The mutual terms around the land were known :
And Emma and the Nut-brown Maid were one.

As with her stature, still her charms increas'd;
Through all the isle her beauty was confess'd.
Oh! what perfections must that virgin share,
Who fairest is esteem'd, where all are fair!
From distant shires repair the noble youth,
And find report, for once, had lessen'd truth.
By wonder first, and then by passion mov'd,
They came; they saw; they marvell'd; and they
By public praises, and by secret sighs, [lov'd,
Each own'd the general power of Emma's eyes.
In tilts and tournaments the valiant strove,
By glorious deeds, to purchase Emma's love.
In gentle verse the witty told their flame,
And grac'd their choicest songs with Emma's name.
In vain they combated, in vain they writ:
Useless their strength, and impotent their wit.
Great Venus only must direct the dart,
Which else will never reach the fair-one's heart,
Spite of th' attempts of force, and soft effects of art,
Great Venus must prefer the happy one:
In Henry's cause her favour must be shown;
And Emma, of mankind, must love but him alone.
While these in public to the castle came,
And by their grandeur justified their flame;
More secret ways the careful Henry takes;
His squires, his arms, and equipage forsakes:
In borrow'd name, and false attire array'd,
Oft he finds means to see the beauteous maid.

When Emma hunts, in huntsman's habit drest Henry on foot pursues the bounding beast. In his right-hand his beechen pole he bears; And graceful at his side his horn he wears. Still to the glade, where she has bent her way, With knowing skill he drives the future prey; Bids her decline the hill, and shun the brake; And shows the path her steed may safest take; Directs her spear to fix the glorious wound; Pleas'd in his toils to have her triumph crown'd And blows her praises in no common sound.

A falconer Henry is, when Emma hawks: With her of tarsels and of lures he talks. Upon his wrist the towering merlin stands, Practis'd to rise, and stoop at her commands. And when superior now the bird has flown, And headlong brought the tumbling quarry down With humble reverence he accosts the fair, And with the honour'd feather decks her hair,

Yet still, as from the sportive field she goes,
His down-cast eye reveals his inward woes;
And by his look and sorrow is exprest,

nobler game pursued than bird or beast.

A shepherd now along the plain he roves;
And, with his jolly pipe, delights the groves.
The neighbouring swains around the stranger
throng,

Or to admire, or emulate his song:
While with soft sorrow he renews his lays,
Nor heedful of their envy, nor their praise.
But, soon as Emma's eyes adorn the plain,
His notes he raises to a nobler strain,
With dutiful respect and studious fear;
Lest any careless sound offend her ear.

A frantic gipsy now, the house he haunts,
And in wild phrases speaks dissembled wants.
With the fond maids in palmistry he deals:
They tell the secret first, which he reveals;
Says who shall wed, and who shall be beguil'd;
What groom shall get, and squire maintain the

child.

But, when bright Emma would her fortune know,
A softer look unbends his opening brow;
With trembling awe he gazes on her eye,
And in soft accents forms the kind reply;
That she shall prove as fortunate as fair;
And Hymen's choicest gifts are all reserv'd for her.
Now oft had Henry chang'd his sly disguise,
Unmark'd by all but beauteous Emma's eyes:
Oft had found means alone to see the dame,
And at her feet to breathe his amorous flame;
And oft, the pangs of absence to remove,
By letters, soft interpreters of love:
Till Time and Industry (the mighty two
That bring our wishes nearer to our view)
Made him perceive, that the inclining fair
Receiv'd his vows with no reluctant car;
That Venus had confirm'd her equal reign,
And dealt to Emma's heart a share of Henry's pain.
While Cupid smil'd, by kind occasion bless'd,
And, with the secret kept, the love increas'd;
The amorous youth frequents the silent groves;
And much he meditates, for much he loves.
He loves, 'tis true; and is belov'd again:
Great are his joys; but will they long remain?
Emma with smiles receives his present flame;
But, smiling, will she ever be the same?
Beautiful looks are rul'd by fickle minds;
And summer seas are turn'd by sudden winds.
Another love may gain her easy youth:
Time changes thought, and flattery conquers truth.
O impotent estate of human life!
Where Hope and Fear maintain eternal strife;
Where fleeting joy does lasting doubt inspire;
And most we question, what we most desire!
Amongst thy various gifts, great Heaven, bestow
Our cup of love unmix'd; forbear to throw
Bitter ingredients in; nor pall the draught
With nauseous grief: for our ill-judging thought
Hardly enjoys the pleasurable taste;
Or deems it not sincere; or fears it cannot last.
With wishes rais'd, with jealousies opprest,
(Alternate tyrants of the human breast)
By one great trial he resolves to prove
The faith of woman, and the force of love.
If, scanning Emma's virtues, he may find
That beauteous frame enclose a steady mind,
He'll fix his hope, of future joy secure ;
And live a slave to Hymen's happy power.

But if the fair-one, as he fears, is frail;
If, pois'd aright in Reason's equal scale,
Light fly her merit, and her faults prevail;
His mind he vows to free from amorous care,
The latent mischief from his heart to tear,
Resume his azure arms, and shine again in war.
South of the castle, in a verdant glade,

A spreading beech extends her friendly shade.
Here oft the nymph his breathing vows had heard;
Here oft her silence had her heart declar'd.
As active Spring awak'd her infant buds,
And genial life inform'd the verdant woods;
Henry, in knots involving Emma's name,
Had half express'd, and half conceal'd, his flame,
Upon this tree: and, as the tender mark
Grew with the year, and widen'd with the bark,
Venus had heard the virgin's soft address,
That, as the wound, the passion might increase.
As potent Nature shed her kindly showers,
And deck'd the various mead with opening flowers
Upon this tree the nymph's obliging care
Had left a frequent wreath for Henry's hair;
Which, as with gay delight the lover found,
Pleas'd with his conquest, with her present
crown'd,

Glorious through all the plains he oft had gone,
And to each swain the mystic honour shown;
The gift still prais'd, the giver still unknown.

His secret note the troubled Henry writes:
To the lone tree the lovely maid invites.
Imperfect words and dubious terms express,
That unforeseen mischance disturb'd his peace;
That he must so nething to her ear commend,
On which her conduct and his life depend.

Soon as the fair one had the note receiv'd,
The remnant of the day alone she griev'd:
For different this from every former note,
Which Venus dictated, and Henry wrote;
Which told her all his future hopes were laid
On the dear bosom of his Nut-brown Maid;
Which always bless'd her eyes, and own'd her
power;

And bid her oft adieu, yet added more.
Now night advanc'd. The house in sleep were laid a*
The nurse experienc'd, and the prying maid,
And, last, that sprite, which does incessant haunt
The lover's steps, the ancient maiden-aunt.
To her dear Henry, Emma wings her way,
With quicken'd pace repairing forc'd delay;
For Love, fantastic power, that is afraid
To stir abroad till Watchfulness be laid,
Undaunted then o'er cliffs and valleys strays,
And leads his votaries safe through pathless ways.
Not Argus, with his hundred eyes, shall find
Where Cupid goes; though he, poor guide! is
blind.

The maiden first arriving, sent her eye
To ask, if yet its chief delight were nigh:
With fear and with desire, with joy and pain,
She sees, and runs to meet him on the plain.
But, oh his steps proclaim no lover's haste:
On the low ground his fix'd regards are cast;
His artful bosom heaves dissembled sighs;
And tears suborn'd fall copious from his eyes.
With ease, alas! we credit what we love:
His painted grief does real sorrow move
In the afflicted fair; adown her cheek
Trickling the genuine tears their current break;
Attentive stood the mournful nymph: the man'
Broke silence first: the tale alternate ran.