Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Nee one hallie Seyncte to save Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres Rounde his hallie corse to gre; Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres, Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee: Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. 40 45 Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne 50 Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie: Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. 55 Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, I die! I comme! mie true love waytes.- 60 By 1668. 1777. AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE In Virgynè the sweltrie sun gan sheene, And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie; The apple rodded from its palie greene, And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; 5 'T was nowe the pride, the manhode, of the yeare, And eke the grounde was dighte in its most defte aumere. The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, 10 And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace. Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side Look in his glommèd face, his spright there scanne: The gathered storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; 15 20 25 The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine; 30 Dashde from the cloudes, the waters flott againe; 35 Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound 40 Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, With the mist almes-craver neere to the holme to bide. 45 His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, 50 And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne- 55 "An almes, sir prieste!" the droppynge pilgrim saide; "O let me waite within your covente dore, Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer. No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; All yatte I calle my owne is this my silver crouche." бо "Varlet," replyd the Abbatte, "cease your dinne! This is no season almes and prayers to give. 65 Mie porter never lets a faitour in; None touch mie rynge who not in honour live." And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve, And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie: The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie. 70 Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde: 75 "An almes, sir priest!" the droppynge pilgrim sayde, The Limitoure then loosened his pouche threade, "Here, take this silver; it maie eathe thie care: We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare. "But ah, unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde. Here, take my semecope-thou arte bare, I see; 80 85 'Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde." 1770. 90 1777. WILLIAM COWPER THIS EVENING, DELIA, YOU AND I This evening, Delia, you and I For with a frown we parted, Yet well as each performed their part, And that we both intended To sacrifice a little ease; For all such petty flaws as these You knew, dissembler! all the while, After this heavy pelt; That we should gain by this allay 5 ΙΟ 15 When Cromwell fought for pow'r, and while he The proud protector of the pow'r he gained, Parent of manners like herself severe, Drew a rough copy of the Christian face, Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace; Judged ev'ry effort of the Muse a crime; 5 ΙΟ But when the second Charles assumed the sway, And arts revived beneath a softer day, 15 Flew to its first position with a spring 20 25 |