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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,
To fee I pityed not his greeffe,

He gott him to a fecrett place,

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And there hee dyed without releeffe.

And for his fake thefe weedes I weare,
And facrifice my tender age;
And every day Ile begg my bread,
To undergoe this pilgrimage.

Thus every day I fast and praye,
And ever will doe till I dye;
And gett me to fome fecrett place,
For foe did hee, and foe will 1.

Now, gentle herdsman, aske no more,
But keepe my fecretts I thee pray;
Unto the towne of Walfingham

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
Could beare me, and the joys I quitt.
Thou caufedeft the guiltie to be losed
From bandes, wherein are innocents inclosed:
Caufing the guiltles to be ftraite reserved,

And freeing those that death had well deserved.
But by her envie can be nothing wroughte,
So God fend to my foes all they have thoughte.

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,
Thy maining maks my heart ful fad.
Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly ftil and fleipe,
It grieves me fair to see thee weipe.

When he began to court my luve,
And with his fugred wordes to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire
To me that time did nat appeire:
But now I fee, moft cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe, nor mee.

Balow, &c.

Ly ftil, my darling, fleipe a while,
And whan thou wakeft, fweitly smile:
But fmile nat, as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay God forbid!
Bot yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire
Thy fatheris hart, and face to beire.
Balow, &c.

L

I cannae chufe, but ever wil
Be luving to thy father ftil:

Whair-eir he gaes, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun ftil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neire depart him frae.

Balow, &c.

Bot doe nat, doe nat, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new;
If gude or faire, of hir hae care,
For womens banning's wonderous fair.

Balow, &c.

Bairne, fin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winfome finiles mann eife my paine;
My babe and I'll together live,

He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve:
My babe and I right faft will ly,

And quite forgeit man's cruelty.

Balow, &c.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falseft youth,
That evir kift a womans mouth!
I wish all maides be warnd by mee
Nevir to truft mans curtefy;

For if we doe bot chance to bow,
They'le ufe us than they care nae how.
Balow, my babe, ly ftil, and flcipe,
It grieves me fair to see thee weipe.

ARABELLA STUART.

HERE London's tow're its turrets fhowe,
So ftatelye by the Thame's fyde,

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.

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