Tell therefore how thou wilt be tried!
Whose judgment here wilt thou abide ?

My Lord! quoth I,-this Lady here,
Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt if any were:

Wherefore her doom shall please me best.
Let her be judge and juror both
To try me, guiltless by mine oath!

Quoth Beauty-No! it fitteth not
A Prince herself to judge the cause :
Will is our Justice, well you wot,
Appointed to discuss our laws.
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so!
Then Craft, the crier, call'd a quest,

Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;
A pack of pickthanks were the rest,

Which came false witness for to bear: The jury such, the judge unjust, Sentence was said I should be truss'd.

Jealous, the gaoler, bound me fast

To hear the verdict of the bill
George! quoth the Judge,-now thou art cast,
Thou must go hence to heavy hill

And there be hang'd all by the head :
God rest thy soul when thou art dead!

Down fell I then upon my knee,

All flat before Dame Beauty's face,
And cried-Good Lady! pardon me
Which here appeal unto your grace:
You know, if I appear untrue,
It was in too much praising you.

And though this judge do make such haste
To shed with shame my guiltless blood,

Yet let your pity first be placed

To save the man that meant you good! So shall you show yourself a Queen, And I may be your servant seen.

Quoth Beauty-Well! because I guess What thou dost mean henceforth to be, Although thy faults deserve no less

Than Justice here hath judgèd thee,
Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife,
And be true prisoner all thy life?

Yes, Madam! quoth I,-that I shall:
Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties!
Why then, quoth She,-come when I call;
I ask no better warranties.

Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall,
At her command when she doth call.

BARNABE GOOGE.

1540 ?-1594.

TO THE TUNE OF APELLES.

The rushing rivers that do run,

The vallies sweet adornèd new

That lean their sides against the sun,
With flowers fresh of sundry hue,
Both ash and elm, and oak so high,
Do all lament my woeful cry.

While winter black with hideous storms

Doth spoil the ground of summer's green, While spring-time sweet the leaf returns That late on tree could not be seen, While summer burns, while harvest reigns, Still, still do rage my restless pains.

No end I find in all my smart,

But endless torment I sustain,

Since first, alas! my woeful heart

By sight of thee was forced to plain,Since that I lost my liberty,

Since that thou madest a slave of me.

My heart, that once abroad was free,
Thy beauty hath in durance brought;
Once reason ruled and guided me,

And now is wit consumed with thought; Once I rejoiced above the sky,

And now for thee, alas! I die.

Once I rejoiced in company,

And now my chief and whole delight
Is from my friends away to fly

And keep alone my wearied sprite.
Thy face divine and my desire
From flesh have me transform'd to fire.

O Nature! thou that first didst frame
My Lady's hair of purest gold,

Her eyes of crystal to the same,

Her lips of precious rubies' mould,
Her neck of alabaster white,-
Surmounting far each other wight :

Why didst thou not that time devise,
Why didst thou not foresee, before
The mischief that thereof doth rise

And grief on grief doth heap with store,

To make her heart of wax alone

And not of flint and marble stone?

O Lady! show thy favour yet:

Let not thy servant die for thee!

Where Rigour ruled let Mercy sit!
Let Pity conquer Cruelty!

Let not Disdain, a fiend of hell,

Possess the place where Grace should dwell!

EDWARD VERE.

(EARL OF OXFORD.) 1541-1604.

FAIR FOOLS.

If women could be fair and yet not fond,
Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,
I would not marvel that they make men bond
By service long to purchase their good will :
But when I see how frail these creatures are,
I muse that men forget themselves so far.

To mark the choice they make, and how they change,
How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan;
Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,
These gentle birds that fly from man to man :
Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,
And let them fly, fair fools! which way they list?

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when nothing else can please;
And train them to our lure with subtle oath,
Till weary of their wiles ourselves we ease:
And then we say, when we their fancy try,
To play with fools O what a fool was I!

NICHOLAS BRETON.

1542-52?-1626.

PHILLIDA AND CORIDON.

In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
With a troop of damsels playing
Forth I yode, forsooth! a-maying.
When anon, by a wood side
Where that May was in his pride,
I espièd all alone

Phillida and Coridon.

Much ado there was, God wot:
He would love, and she would not.
She said-Never man was true;
He says—None was false to you;
He said-He had loved her long
She says-Love should have no wrong;
Coridon would kiss her then;

She says-Maids must kiss no men
Till they do for good and all;
Then she made the Shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth-
Never loved a truer youth.

Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not love abuse,
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gay
Was made the Lady of the May.

A SWEET LULLABY.

Come, little Babe! come, silly soul !
Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief :
Born, as I doubt, to all our dole,

And to thyself unhappy chief.

Sing lullaby, and lap it warm,

Poor soul that thinks no creature harm!

Thou little think'st and less dost know

The cause of all thy mother's moan ; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone.

Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail? And know'st not yet what thou dost ail.