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ERLE ROBERT'S MICE.

IN CHAUCER'S STYLE.

TWAY
VAY Mice, full blythe and amicable,

Baten befide Erle Robert's table,
Lies there ne trap their necks to catch,
Ne old black cat their steps to watch,
Their fill they eat of fowl and fish;
Feaft lyche as heart of Mouse mote wish.
As guefts fat Jovial at the board,
Forth leap'd our Mice; eftfoons the Lord
Of Boling, whilom John the Saint,
Who maketh oft' propos full queint,
Laugh'd jocund, and aloud he cry'd,
To Matthew feated on th' oth' fide,
To thee, lean Bard, it doth partain
To understand thefe creatures tweine:
Come frame us now fome clean device,
Or playfant rhyme on yonder Mice;

They feem, God fhield me, Matt. and Charles.
Bad as Sir Topas or Squire Quarles
(Matthew did for the nonce reply)
At emblem or device am I ;

But could I chaunt or rhyme, pardie,
Clear as Dan Chaucer or as thee,
Ne verfe from me (fo God me fhrive)
On mouse or other beaft alive.
Certes I have this many days
Sent myne poetic herd to graze.
Ne armed knight ydrad in war
With lyon fierce will I compare ;
Ne judge unjuft with furred fox,
Harming in fecret guife the flocks;
Ne prieft unworth of goddess coat,
To fwine ydrunk or filthy ftoat;
Elke fimile farewell for aye,
From elephant, I trow, to flea.

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Reply'd the friendlike peer I weene
Matthew is angred on the spleen.
Ne fo, quoth Matt. ne shall be e'er,
With wit that falleth all fo fair:
Eftfoons well weet ye my intent
Boweth to your commaundement.
If by thefe creatures ye have feen,
Pourtrayed Charles and Matthew been,
Behoveth neet to wreck my brain,
The reft in order to explain.

That cupboard where the Mice difport
I liken to St. Stephen's court;
Therein is fpace enough, I trow,
For elke comrade to come and goe;
And therein eke may both be fed
With fhiver of the wheaten bred:
And when as thefe mine eyen survey

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They cease to skip, and squeak, and play,

Return they may to diff'rent cells,

Auditing one whilft th' other tells.

Dear Robert, quoth the Saint, whofe mind

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In bounteous deed no mean can bind,

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Laugh I whilft thus I ferious pray?

Let that be wrought which Matt. doth say;
Yea, quoth the Erle, but not to-day.,

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FUL

IN THE SAME STYLE.

ULL oft' doth Matt. with Topaz dine,
Eateth bak'd meats, drinketh Greek wine;

But Topas his own worke rehearseth,

And Matt. mote praife what Topaz verfeth.
Now fhure as prieft did e'er fhrive finner,
Full hardly earneth Matt. his dinner.

IN THE SAME STYLE.

FAIR Sufan did her wif-hede well menteine,
Algates affaulted fore by letchours tweine;
Now, and I read aright that auncient fong,
Olde were the paramours, the dame full yong.

Had thilke fame tale in other guife been tolde;
Had they been young (pardie) and fhe been olde,
That, by St. Kit, had wrought much forer tryal,
Full merveillous, I wote, were fwilk denyal.

TO FORTUNE,

WHILST I in prifon or in court look down,

In vain malicious Fortune haft thou try'd,
By taking from my ftate to quell my pride:
Infulting girl, thy prefent rage abate,

And would't thou have me humbled, make me great.

TO CLOE.

HILST I am fcorch'd with hot defire,

Win vain cold friendship you return,

Your drops of pity on my fire,

Alas! but make it fiercer burn.

II.

Ah! would you have the flame fuppreft,
That kills the heart it heats too fast,
Take half my paffion to your breast,
The reft in mine fhall ever last.

TO CLOE WEEPING.

EE, whilft thou weep'ft, fair Cloe, see

SEE,

The world in fympathy with thee:
The cheerful birds no longer fing,
Each droops his head, and hangs his wing.
The clouds have bent their bofom lower,
And fhed their forrows in a fhowe

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The brooks beyond their limits flow,
And louder murmurs fpeak their woe,
The nymphs and fwains adopt thy cares;
They heave thy fighs and weep thy tears.
Fantastic nymph! that grief fhould move
Thy heart obdurate against love.

Strange tears! whofe pow'r can soften all
But that dear breast on which they fall.

CLOE HUNTING.

EHIND her neck her comely treffes ty'd,

B. Her iv'ry quiver graceful by her fide,
A-hunting Cloe went; fhe loft her way,
And thro' the woods uncertain chanc'd to ftray.
Apollo, paffing by, beheld the maid;

And, Sifter dear, bright Cynthia, turn, he said;
The hunted hind lies clofe in yonder break.
Loud Cupid laugh'd to fee the god's mistake;
And, laughing, cry'd, Learn better, great divine,
To know thy kindred, and to honour mine.
Rightly advis'd, far hence thy filter feek,
Or on Meander's bank or Latmus' peak;
But in this nymph, my friend, my fister know,
She draws my arrows, and fhe bends my bow:

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Fair Thames the haunts, and ev'ry neighb'ring grove,
Sacred to foft recefs and gentle love.

Go, with thy Cynthia hurl the pointed spear
At the rough boar, or chafe the flying deer:
I and my Cloe take a nobler aim;

At human hearts we fling, nor ever miss the game.

CLOE JEALOUS.

ORBEAR to ask me why I weep, FORBEAR to her mepherd faid;

"Tis for my two poor ftraggling sheep, Perhaps, or for my fquirrel dead.

II.

For mind I what you late have writ ?
Your fubtle queftions and replies?

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