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“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 raved as anie madde,

And dydd her tresses tere: “Oh staie, mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!"

Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.


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Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume

Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt: Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,

Who tuned 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 backes syx mynstrelles came,

Who tuned the strunge bataunt.

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't; And theyre attendyng menne echone,

Lyke Easterne princes trickt.



And after them a multitude

Of citizenns dydd thronge;
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,

As hee dydd passe alonge.
And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,

Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
"O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne,

Washe mye soule clean thys daie!" Att the grete mynsterr wyndowe sat

The kynge ynne myckle state, To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge

To hys most welcom fate.



Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,
The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,

And thus hys wordes declare:


“Thou seest mee, Edwardel traytour vile!

Exposed to infamie;
Butt bee assured, loyall manne,

I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee!
“Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,

Thou wearest nowe a crowne; And hast appoynted mee to dye,

By power nott thyne owne.

I 20

“Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie :

I have beene dede 'till nowe,
And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne

For aie uponne my browe;


"Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares,

Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule

'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande.


“Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave,

Shall falle onne thye owne hedde" — Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge

Departed thenne the sledde.

Kynge Edwarde's soule rushed to hys face;

Hee turned hys hedde awaie, And to hys broder Gloucester

Hee thus dydd speke and saie:


"To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe

Ne ghastlie terrors brynge.
Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe:

Hee's greater thanne a kynge !"


“Soe lett hym die!” Duke Richard sayde;

"And maye echone oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe

And feede the carryon crowes !".


And nowe the horses gentlie drewe

Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle; The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,

Hys pretious bloude to spylle.


Syrr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe

As uppe a gilded carre
Of victorye, bye valrous chiefs

Gayned ynne the bloudie warre.

Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,

A pray'r to Godde dydd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe

Hys partynge soule to take.


Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde

Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once

The able heddes-manne stroke:


And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,

And rounde the scaffolde twyne;
And teares, enow to washe 't awaie,

Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.


The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre

Ynnto foure parties cutte;
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde,

Uponne a pole was putte.


One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,

One onne the mynster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure;

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate,

A dreery spectacle;
Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse,

Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.


Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate:

Godde prosper longe oure kynge,
And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule,

Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge!
By 1668.




Thorowe the halle the belle han sounde;
Byelecoyle doe the Grave beseeme;

The ealdermenne doe sytte arounde,
And snoffelle oppe the cheorte steeme,
Lyche asses wylde ynne desarte waste
Swotelye the morneynge ayre doe taste.


Syche coyne theie ate; the minstrels plaie,
The dynne of angelles doe theie keepe;
Heie stylle, the guestes ha ne to saie,
Butte nodde yer thankes ande falle aslape.
Thus echone daie bee I to deene,
Gyf Rowley, Iscamm, or Tyb. Gorge's be ne seene.





The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte;
The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;
Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;
The nesh yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe;

The trees enlefèd, yntoe Heavenne straughte,
Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys



The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge;
The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne;
Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe ;
Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne;

I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle,
Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle.



So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse,
All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde;
Ynn Womman alleyne mannès pleasaunce lyes;
As Instrumentes of joie were made the kynde.

Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see
Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charme for thee.


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