Syke ys the waie of lyffe; the loverds ente
Mooveth the robber hym therefor to slea;
Gyf thou has ethe, the shadowe of contente,
Beleive the trothe, theres none moe haile yan thee.
Thou wurchest; welle, canne thatte a trobble bee?
Slothe moe wulde jade thee than the roughest daie.
Couldst thou the kivercled of soughlys see,
Thou wouldst eftsoones see trothe ynne whatta I

saie;

Botte lette me heere thie waie of lyffe, and thenne Heare thou from me the lyffe of odher menne.

MANNE.

ryse wyth the sonne,
Lyche him to dryve the wayne,
And eere mie wurche is don
I synge a songe or twayne.
I followe the plough-tayle,
Wythe a long jubb of ale.

Botte of the maydens, oh!
It lacketh notte to telle;
Syr preeste mote notte crie woe,
Culde hys bull do as welle.
I daunce the beste beiedeygnes,
And foile the wysest feygnes.
On everych seynctes hie daie
Wythe the mynstrelle am I seene,
All a footeynge it awaie,
Wythe maydens on the greene.
But oh! I wyshe to be moe greate,
In rennome, tenure and estate.

SYR ROGERRE.

Has thou ne seene a tree uponne a hylle,

Whose unliste braunces rechen far toe syghte;

Whan fuired unwers doe the Heaven fylle,
Itte shaketh deere yn dole and moke affryghte.
Whylest the congeon flowrette abessie* dyghte,
Stondethe unhurte, unquaced by the storme:
Syke is a picte of lyffe: the manne of myghte
Is tempest-chaft, hys woe greate as hys forme;
Thieselfe a flowrette of a small accounte,
Wouldst harder felle the wynde, as hygher thee
dydste mounte,

ECLOGUE THE FOURTH.

ELINOURE AND JUGA.

ONNE Ruddebornet bank twa pynynge maydens sate,

Theire teares faste dryppeyne to the waterre cleere ;

Echone bementynge for her absente mate,

Who atte Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare.

The nottebrowne Elinoure to Juga fayre

Dydde speke acroole,+ wythe languishment of eyne, Lyche droppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvryng brine.

* Evidently from the French abaisser, but corruptly and in deed unintelligibly formed. It is used by no other writer. Tyr whitt.

+ Ruddeborne, rudborne (in Saxon, red-water ;) a river near Saint Albans, famous for the battles there fought between the houses of Lancaster and York.

Unauthorized. The imitative verb crool, or something like it, is said to have denoted the sound made by the dove.

ELINOURE.

gentle Juga! heare mie dernie plainte,

To fyghte for Yorke mie love ys dyghte in stele;
O mai ne sanguen steine the whyte rose peyncte,
Mai good Seyncte Cuthberte watche Syrre Roberte
wele.

Moke moe than ne deathe in phantasie I feele ;
See! see! upon the grounde he bleedynge lies;
Inhild some joice of lyfe, or else mie deare love dies.

JUGA.

Systers in sorrowe on thys daise-ey'd banke,
Where melancholych broods, we wyll lamente;
Be wette wythe mornynge dewe and evene danke ;
Lyche levynde okes in eche the odher bente,
Or lyche forlettenn* halles of merriemente,
Whose gastlie mitches holde the traine of fryghte,
Where lethale ravens bark, and owlets wake the
nyghte.

ELINOURE.

No moe the miskynette shall wake the morne,t The minstrelle daunce, good cheere, and morryce

plaie ;

No moe the amblynge palfrie and the horne

Shall from the lessel rouze the foxe awaie;

I'll seke the forreste alle the lyve-longe daie;

* Mr. Bowles has introduced this line in his Monody, written at Matlock.

Whilst hush'd, and by the mace of ruin rent,
Sinks the forsaken hall of merriment.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

Gray.

Alle nete amenge the gravde chyrche glebe wyll

goe,

And to the passante spryghtes lecture mie tale of

woe.

JUGA.

Whan mokie cloudis do hange upon the leme
Of leden Moon, ynn sylver mantels dyghte;
The tryppeynge Faeries weve the golden dreme
Of selyness, whyche flyeth wythe the nyghte;
Thenne (botte the seynctes forbydde!) gif to a
spryte

Syrr Rychardes forme ys lyped, I'll holde dystraughte

Hys bledeynge claie-colde corse, and die eche daie ynn thoughte.

ELINOURE.

Ah woe bementynge wordes; what wordes can shewe!

Thou limed ryver, on thie linche maie bleede Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thie waterres flowe,

And Rudborne streeme be Rudborne streeme indeede!

Haste, gentle Juga, tryppe ytte oere the meade,
To knowe, or wheder we must waile agayne,
Or wythe oure fallen knyghtes be menged onne the
plain.

So sayinge, lyke twa levyn-blasted trees,

Or twayne of cloudes that holdeth stormie rayne;
Theie moved gentle oere the dewie mees,
To where Seynçte Albons holie shrynes remayne.

There did theye fynde that bothe their knyghtes were slayne:

Distraughte theie wandered to swollen Rudbornes

syde,

Yelled theyre lethalle knelle, sonke ynn the waves, and dyde.