And grew foe coy and nice to please, As womens lookes are often foe, He might not kifes, nor hand forfooth, Unleffe I willed him foe to doe. Thus being wearyed with delayes, He gott him to a fecrett place, 4 And there hee dyed without releeffe. And for his fake thefe weedes I weare, Thus every day I fast and praye, Now, gentle herdsman, aske no more, Show me the right and readye way. "Now goe thy ways, and God before! "For he must ever guide thee ftill: "Turne downe that dale, the right hand path, "And fo faire Pilgrim, fare thee well!" Q. ELIZABETH's VERSES, WHILE PRISONER AT WOODSTOCK, WRIT WITH CHARCOAL ON A SHUTTER. H, Fortune! how thy refleffe wavering ftate Witnes this present prisonn, whither fate And freeing those that death had well deserved. A. D.M, D, LV. ELIZABETHE, PRISONER. LADY BOTHWELL's LAMENT, A SCOTTISH SONG. BALOW, my babe, ly ftil and fleipe! It grieves me fair to fee thee weipe: If thouft be filent, Ife be glad, Balow, my babe, ly ftil and fleipe, When he began to court my luve, Balow, &c. Ly ftil, my darling, fleipe a while, L I cannae chufe, but ever wil Whair-eir he gaes, whair-eir he ryde, Balow, &c. Bot doe nat, doe nat, prettie mine, Balow, &c. Bairne, fin thy cruel father is gane, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: And quite forgeit man's cruelty. Balow, &c. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falseft youth, For if we doe bot chance to bow, ARABELLA STUART. HERE London's tow're its turrets fhowe, Faire Arabella, chyld of woe, For manye a daye had fat and figh'd. And as flee heard the waves arife, And as fhee heard the bleake wyndes roare, As fall did heave her heartfelte fighes, And fill fo faft her teares did poure. The fun that joy'd the blithsom daye, The moone that chear'd the night's dull houre, Still founde the faire to griefe a preye, The victim of tyrannic pow're. |