Yet I you rede to take good hede what men wyll thynke and say: [away: Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde, that ye be gone Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, in grene wode you to play; [make delay: And that ye myght from your delyght no lenger Rather than ye, sholde thus for me be called an yll woman, [man. Yet wolde I to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed B. Though it be songe of olde and yonge, that I sholde be to blame, [of my name: Theyrs be the charge that speke so large in hurtynge For I wyll prove, that faythfull love it is devoyd [the same; of shame; In your distresse, and hevynesse, to part wyth you, To shewe all tho that do nat so, true lovers are they [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you none: A. I counceyle you, remember howe it is no mayden's lawe, [outlawe: Nothyne to dout, but to renne out to wode with an For ye must there in your hand bere a bowe, redy to drawe; [and awe; And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve, ever in drede Wherby to you grete harme myght growe: yet had I lever than, [man. That I had to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed B. I say nat, nay, but as ye say, it is no mayden's lore: But love may make me, for your sake, as I have sayd before, [in store; For an outlawe, this is the lawe,-that men hym take and bynde; [wynde. Without pyte, hanged to be, and waver with the Yf I had neede, (as God forbede!) what socours coude ye fynde? [drawe behynde: For sothe I trowe, ye and your bowe for fere wolde And no mervayle; for lytell avayle were in your councele than: [nyshed man. Wherfore I'll to the grene wode go, alone, a baB. Right wele knowe ye, that women be but feble for to fyght; [knyght: No womanhede it is, indeede, to be bolde as a Yet, in such fere yf that ye were with enemyes day and night, [with my myght, I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande, to helpe you And you to save; as women have from deth many a one; [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you A. Yet take good hede; for ever I drede that ye coude nat sustayne [frost, the rayne, The thornie wayes, the depe valèies, the snowe, the The colde, the hete: for, dry or wete, we must lodge on the playne; [twayne: And, us above, none other rofe but a brake, bush, or Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve; and ye wolde gladly than, [man. That I had to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed B. Syth I have here been partynère with you of joy and blysse, I must also parte of your wo endure, as reson is: Yet am I sure of one pleasùre; and, shortely, it is this,[fare amysse. That, where ye be, me semeth, parde, I coude not Without more speche, I you beseche that we were shortely gone; [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you A. Yf ye goo thyder, ye must consider,-whan ye have Nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go, and I shall tell you why, Your appetyght is to be lyght of love, I wcle espy: For, lyke as ye have sayed to me, in lyke wyse hardely [company. Ye wolde answère, whosoever it were, in way of It is sayd of olde,-" Sone hote, sone colde;" and so is a woman: [man. For I must to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed B. Yf ye take hede, it is no nede such wordes to say by me; [loved, parde: For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed, or I you And though that I of auncestry a baron's daughter be, [of lowe degre; Yet have you proved howe I you loved, a squyer And ever shall, whatso befall; to dy therefore anone; [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you A. A baron's chylde to be begylde! it were a cursed dede: [bede! To be felawe with an outlawe! Almighty God forYea, beter were, the pore squyère alone to forest yede, [dede Than yesholde say another day, that by that cursed I have purvayed me of a mayd, whom I love more Another fayrère than ever ye were, I dare it wele avowe; [as I trowe: And of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe with other, It were myne ese, to lyve in pese; so wyll I, yf İ can; [man. Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, alone, a banyshed B. Though in the wode I undyrstode ye had a para[I will be your: mour, All this may nought remove my thought, but that And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde, and courteys every hour; [my power: Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll commaunde me, to For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, yet wolde I be that one; [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you A. Myne own dere love, I se the prove that ye be kynde, and true; [ever I knewe. Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe, the best that Be mery and glad, be no more sad, the case is chaunged newe; [have cause to rewe: For it were rathe, that, for your truthe, ye sholde Be nat dismayed; whatsoever I sayd to you, whan I began, [man. I wyll not to the grene wode go, I am no banyshed B. These tydings be more gladder to me than to be made a quene, [sene, Yf I were sure they sholde endure: but it is often Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke the wordes on the splene : [me I wene: Ye shape some wyle, me to begyle, and stele from Than were the case worse than it was, and I more wo-begone; [alone. For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you A. Ye shall nat nede further to drede; I will not dysparage [a lynage. You, (God defende!) syth you descend of so grete Nowe understande, - -to Westmarlande, which is myne herytage, [maryage I wyll you bringe; and with a rynge, by way of I wyll you take, and lady make, as shortely as I [man. Thus have ye won an erlys son, and not a banyshed can: B. And (all due honours faithfully discharg'd) Here may ye se, that women be, in love, meke, Had brought back his paternal coat, enlarg'd kynde, and stable: Late never man reprove them than, THOU, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command As beauty's potent queen, with every grace, one Of all mankind thou lov'st, oh! think on me alone. WHERE beauteous Isis and her husband Tame, With mingled waves, for ever flow the same, In times of yore an ancient baron liv'd; Great gifts bestow'd, and great respect receiv'd. When dreadful Edward, with successful care, Led bis free Britons to the Gallic war; This lord had headed his appointed bands, In arm allegiance to his king's commands; With a new mark, the witness of his toil, From the loud camp retir'd, and noisy court, One child he had, a daughter chaste and fair, As with her stature, still her charms increas'd; Through all the isle her beauty was confess'd. Oh! what perfections must that virgin share, Who fairest is esteem'd, where all are fair! From distant shires repair the noble youth, And find report, for once, had lessen'd truth. By wonder first, and then by passion mov'd, They came; they saw; they marveli'd; and they By public praises, and by secret sighs, [lov'd Each own'd the general power of Emma's eyes. In tilts and tournaments the valiant strove, By glorious deeds, to purchase Emma's love. In gentle verse the witty told their flame, And grae'd their choicest songs with Emma's name, In vain they combated, in vain they writ: Useless their strength, and impotent their wit, Great Venus only must direct the dart, Which else will never reach the fair-one's heart, Spite of th' attempts of force, and soft effects of art, Great Venus must prefer the happy one: In Henry's cause her favour must be shown; And Emma, of mankind, must love but him alone. While these in public to the castle came, And by their grandeur justified their flame; More secret ways the careful Henry takes; His squires, his arms, and equipage forsakes: In borrow'd name, and false attire array'd, Oft he finds means to see the beauteous maid. When Emma hunts, in huntsman's habit drest Henry on foot pursues the bounding beast. In his right-hand his beechen pole he bears; And graceful at his side his horn he wears. Still to the glade, where she has bent her way, With knowing skill he drives the future prey; Bids her decline the hill, and shun the brake; And shows the path her steed may safest take; Directs her spear to fix the glorious wound; Pleas'd in his toils to have her triumph crown'd And blows her praises in no common sound. A falconer Henry is, when Emma hawks: With her of tarsels and of lures he talks. Upon his wrist the towering merlin stands, Practis'd to rise, and stoop at her commands. And when superior now the bird has flown, And headlong brought the tumbling quarry down j With humble reverence he accosts the fair, And with the honour'd feather decks her hair Yet still, as from the sportive field she goes, A shepherd now along the plain he roves; Or to admire, or emulate his song: A frantic gipsy now, the house he haunts, But, when bright Emma would her fortune know, But if the fair-one, as he fears, is frail; A spreading beech extends her friendly shade. crown'd, Glorious through all the plains he oft had gone, His secret note the troubled Henry writes: Soon as the fair-one had the note receiv'd, And bid her oft adieu, yet added more. Now night advanc'd. The house in sleep were laid The maiden first arriving, sent her eye HENRY. SINCERE, O tell me, hast thou felt a pain, Hast thou now drcaded, and now blest his sway, And heavenly poison thrilling through thy heart? EMMA. What is our bliss, that changeth with the Moon; And day of life, that darkens ere 'tis noon? What is true passion, if unblest it dies? And where is Emma's joy, if Henry flies? If love, alas! be pain; the pain I bear No thought can figure, and no tongue declare. Ne'er faithful woman felt, nor false one feign'd, The flames which long have in my bosom reign'd: The god of love himself inhabits there, With all his rage, and dread, and grief, and care, His complement of stores, and total war. O! cease then coldly to suspect my love; And let my deed at least my faith approve. Alas! no youth shall my endearments share; Nor day nor night shall interrupt my care; No future story shall with truth upbraid The cold indifference of the Nut-brown Maid; Nor to hard banishment shall Henry run, While careless Emma sleeps on beds of down. View me resolv'd, where'er thou leal'st, to go, Friend to thy pain, and partner of thy woe; For I attest, fair Venus and her son, That I, of all mankind, will love but thee alone. HENRY. Let prudence yet obstruct thy venturous way; And take good heed, what men will think and say; That beauteous Emma vagrant courses took; Her father's house and civil life forsook; That, full of youthful blood, and fond of man, She to the wood-land with an exile ran. Reflect, that lessen'd fame is ne'er regain'd, And virgin honour, once, is always stain'd: Timely advis'd, the coming evil shun: Better not do the deed, than weep it done. No penance can absolve our guilty fame ; Nor tears, that wa-h out sin, can wash out shame. Then fly the sad effects of desperate love, And leave a banish'd man through lonely woods to rove. EMMA. Let Emma's hapless case be falsely told By the rash young, or the ill-natur'd old: Let every tongue its various censures choose; Absolve with coldness, or with spite accuse: Fair Truth, at last, her radiant beams will raise; And Malice vanquish'd heightens Virtue's praise. Let then thy favour but indulge my flight; O let my presence make thy travels light; And potent Venus shall exalt my name Above the rumours of censorious Fame; Nor from that busy demon's restless power Will ever Emma other grace implore, Than that this truth should to the world be known, That I, of all mankind, have lov'd but thee alone. HENRY. But canst thou wield the sword, and bend the bow? With active force repel the sturdy foe? When the loud tumult speaks the battle nigh, And winged deaths in whistling arrows fly; Wilt thou, though wounded, yet undaunted stay, Perform thy part, and share the dangerous day? Then, as thy strength decays, thy heart will fail, Thy limbs all trembling, and thy cheeks all pale; With fruitless sorrow, thou, inglorious maid, Wilt weep thy safety by thy love betray'd: Then to thy friend, by foes o'er-charg'd, deny Thy little useless aid, and coward fly: Then wilt thou curse the chance that made thee love A banish'd man, condemn'd in lonely woods to rove, EMMA. With fatal certainty Thalestris knew Near thee, mistrust not, constant I'll abide, To stop the wounds, my finest lawn I'd tear, HENRY. But canst thou, tender maid, canst thou sustain Afflictive want, or hunger's pressing pain? Those limbs, in lawn and softest silk array'd, From sun-beams guarded, and of winds afraid, Can they bear angry Jove? can they resist The parching dog-star, and the bleak north-east? When, chill'd by adverse snows and beating rain, We tread with weary steps the longsome plain; When with hard toil we seek our evening food, Berries and acorns from the neighbouring wood; And find among the cliffs no other house But the thin covert of some gather'd boughs; Wilt thou not then reluctant send thine eye Around the dreary waste, and, weeping, try |