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But had I knowne all thys before,

They had been hanged all thre.

[The 155] The kyng hee opened the letter anone, Himselfe he red it tho,

And founde how these outlawes had slain

Thre hundred men and mo:

Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe,
And the mayre of Carleile towne;
Of all the constables and catchipolles
Alyve were scant left one:

The baylyes, and the bedyls both,
And the sergeaunte of the law,

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And broke his parks, and slayne his dere;
Of all they chose the best;

So perelous out-lawes, as they were,
Walked not by easte nor west.

When the kynge this letter had red,
In harte he syghed sore:
Take up the tables anone he bad,
For I may eate no more.

The kyng called hys best archars
To the buttes with hym to go:

I wyll se these felowes shote, he sayd,
In the north have wrought this wo.

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[The 156] The kynges bowmen busket them blyve, 185

And the quenes archers also;

So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen,

With them they thought to go.

There twyse, or thryse they shote about
For to assay theyr hande;

There was no shote these yemen shot,
That any prycket myght stand.

Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslè,
By him that for me dyed,
ti. e. mark.

Ver. 185. blythe. MS.

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195 I hold hym never no good archar, That shoteth at buttes so wyde.

200

At what a butte now wold ye shote,
I pray thee tell to me?

At suche a but, syr, he sayd,
As men use in my countrè.

Wyllyam wente into a fyeld,
With his two brethèrene:

There they set up two hasell roddes
Full twenty score betwene.

205 I hold him an archar, said Cloudesle,

210

That yonder wande cleveth in two.

[Here 157] Here is none suche, sayd the kyng,

Nor none that can so do.

I shall assaye, syr, sayd Cloudeslè,

Or that I farther go.

Cloudesly with a bearyng arow

Clave the wand in two.

Thou art the best archer, then said the king,
For sothe that ever I se.

215 And yet for your love, sayd Wyllyam,

220

I wyll do more maystry.

I have a sonne is seven yere olde,
He is to me full deare;

I wyll hym tye to a stake;

All shall se, that be here;

And lay an apple upon hys head,
And go syxe score hym fro,
And I my selfe with a brede aròw
Shall cleve the apple in two.

225 Now haste the, then sayd the kyng,
By hym that dyed on a tre,

But yf thou do not, as thou hest sayde,
Hanged shalt thou be.

Ver. 202, 203, 212, to. P. C.

P. C. i. e. 400 yards.

120 yards.

Ver. 204. Twenty score paces.

Ver. 222. Sixscore paces. P. C. i. e.

Engl. Sprach- und Literaturdenkm. VI.

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[And 158] And thou touche his head or gowne. (l.,)

In syght that men may se,

By all the sayntes that be in heaven,

I shall hange you all thre.

That I have promised, said William,
That wyll I never forsake.
And there even before the kynge
In the earth he drove a stake:

And bound therto his eldest sonne,
And bad hym stand styll thereat;
And turned the childes face him fro,
Because he should not sterte.

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An apple upon his head he set,

And then his bowe he bent:

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Syxe score paces they were out mete,
And thether Cloudeslè went.

There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe,
Hys bowe was great and longe,

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He set that arrowe in his bowe,

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That was both styffe and stronge.

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He prayed the people, that wer there,
That they still wold stand,

For he shoteth for such a wager,

Behoveth a stedfast hand.

[Muche 159] Muche people prayed for Cloudeslè, That his lyfe saved myght be,

And whan he made hym redy to shote,

There was many weping ee.

But Cloudeslè clefte the apple in twaine,
His sonne he did not nee.

Over Gods forbode, sayde the kinge,
That thou shold shote at me.

I geve thee eightene pence a day,
And my bowe shalt thou bere,
And over all the north countrè
29969 9700 v
90q make the chyfe rydère.

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265 And I thyrtene pence a day, said the quene, By God, and by my fay;

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Come feche thy payment when thou wylt
No man shall say the nay.

Wyllyam, I make the a gentelman

Of clothyng, and of fe:

And thy two brethren, yemen of my chambre,
For they are so semely to se.

Your sonne, for he is tendre of age,

Of my wyne-seller he shal be;

275 And whan he commeth to mans estate, Shal better avaunced be.

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[And, 160] And, Wyllym, bring to me your wife,
Me longeth her sore to se:

She shall be my chefe gentelwoman
To governe my nurserye.

The yemen thanketh them curteously.
To some byshop wyl we wend,
Of all the synnes, that we have done,
To be assoyld at his hand.

285 So forth be gone these good yemen,

As fast as they might he,

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And after came and dwelled with the kynge,
And dyed good men all thre.

Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen;
God send them eternall blysse,

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And all, that with a hand-bowe shoteth,
That of heven they never mysse. Amen.

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THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH LOVE. The Grave-digger's song in HAMLET, A. 5. is taken from three stanzas of the following poem, though somewhat altered and disguised, probably as the same were corrupted by the ballad-singers of Shakespeare's time. The original is preserved among Surrey's Poems, 1559, and is attributed to 35 Lord Vaux, by Geo. Gascoigne, who tells us, it "was thought

by some to be made upon his death-bed;" a popular error which he laughs at. (See his Epist. to Yong Gent. prefixed to his Posies 1575. 4to.) Lord Vaux was remarkable for his skill in drawing feigned manners, &c. for so I under5 stand an ancient writer. "The Lord Vaux his commenda"tion lyeth chiefly in the facilitie of his meetre, and the apt"nesse of his descriptions such as he taketh upon him to "make, namely in sundry of his Songs, wherein he showeth "the COUNTERFAIT ACTION very lively and pleasantly.” Arte 10 of Eng. Poesie, 1589. p. 51. See also Vol. 2. p. 45.

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I Lothe that I did love,

In youth that I thought swete:
As tyme requires for my behove,
Me thinkes they are not mete.
My lustes they do me leave,

My fancies all be fled,

And tract of time begins to weave
Gray heares upon my hed.

[For 162] For age with stealing steps,
Hath clawed me with his crowch,

And lusty life away she leapes,

As there had ben none such.

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Vo III.

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My muse doth not delight

Me as she did before,

My hand and pen are not in plight,
As they have ben of yore.

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For reason me denyes,
This youthly ydle rime

And day by day to me she cryes,
Leave off these toyes in tyme.

The wrinkles in my brow,

The furrowes in my face

Say, limping age will lodge him now,
Where youth must geve him place.

The harbinger of death,

To me I see him ride,

The cough, the colde, the gasping breath,
Doth bid me to provyde

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