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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;

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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
Just to dyne,
[ale, ne wine;'
There shall no mete, be for to gete, neyther bere

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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

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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,

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THOU, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand,
I take the sprightly reed, and sing, and play,
Careless of what the censuring world may say:
Bright Cloe, object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou awhile unbend thy serious brow?
Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heavenly smile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old;
Though since her youth three hundred years have
At thy desire, she shall again be rais'd; [roll'd:
And her reviving charms in lasting verse be prais'd.
No longer man of woman shall complain,
That he may love, and not be lov'd again:
That we in vain the fickle sex pursue,
Who change the constant lover for the new.
Whatever has been writ, whatever said,
Of female passion feign'd, or faith decay'd
Henceforth shall in my verse refuted stand,
Be said to winds, or writ upon the sand.
And, while my notes to future times proclaim
Unconquer'd love, and ever-during flame,
O fairest of the sex! be thou my Muse:
Deign on my work thy influence to diffuse.
Let me partake the blessings I rehearse,
And grant me, love, the just reward of verse!

As beauty's potent queen, with every grace,
That once was Emma's, has adorn'd thy face;
And as her son has to my bosom dealt
That constant flame, which faithful Henry felt:
O let the story with thy life agree:
Let men once more the bright example sec;
What Emma was to him, be thou to me.
Nor send me by thy frown from her I love,
Distant and sad, a banish'd man to rove.
But, oh! with pity, long-entreated, crown
My pains and hopes; and, when thou say'st that

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,
And no inglorious part of foreign spoil.

From the loud camp retir'd, and noisy court,
In honourable ease and rural sport,
The remnant of his days he safely past;
Nor found they lagg'd too slow, nor flew too fast,
He made his wish with his estate comply,
Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die.

One child he had, a daughter chaste and fair,
His age's comfort, and his fortune's heir.
They call'd her Emnia; for the beauteous dame,
Who gave the virgin birth, had borne the name:
The name th' indulgent father doubly lov'd:
For in the child the mother's charms improv❜d.
Yet as, when little, round his knees she play'd,
He call'd her oft, in sport, his Nut-brown Maid,
The friends and tenants took the fondling word,
(As still they please, who imitate their lord);
Usage confirm'd what fancy had begun;
The mutual terms around the land were known :
And Emma and the Nut-brown Maid were one.

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,
His down cast eye reveals his inward woes;
And by his look and sorrow is exprest,
A nobler game pursued than bird or beast.

A shepherd now along the plain he roves;
And, with his jolly pipe, delights the groves.
The neighbouring swains around the stranger
throng,

Or to admire, or emulate his song:
While with soft sorrow he renews his lays,
Nor heedful of their envy, nor their praise.
But, soon as Emma's eyes adorn the plain,
His notes he raises to a nobler strain,
With dutiful respect and studious fear;
Lest any careless sound offend her ear.

A frantic gipsy now, the house he haunts,
And in wild phrases speaks dissembled wants.
With the fond maids in palmistry he deals:
They tell the secret first, which he reveals;
Says who shall wed, and who shall be beguil'd;
What groom shall get, and squire maintain the
child.

But, when bright Emma would her fortune know,
A softer look unbends his opening brow;
With trembling awe he gazes on her eye,
And in soft accents forms the kind reply;
That she shall prove as fortunate as fair;
And Hymen's choicest gifts are all reserv'd for her.
Now oft had Henry chang'd his sly disguise,
Unmark'd by all but beauteous Emma's eyes:
Oft had found means alone to see the dame,
And at her feet to breathe his amorous flame;
And oft, the pangs of absence to remove,
By letters, soft interpreters of love:
Till Time and Industry (the mighty two
That bring our wishes nearer to our view)
Made him perceive, that the inclining fair
Receiv'd his vows with no reluctant ear;
That Venus had confirm'd her equal reign,
And dealt to Emma's heart a share of Henry's pain.
While Cupid smil'd, by kind occasion bless'd,
And, with the secret kept, the love increas'd;
The amorous youth frequents the silent groves;
And much he meditates, for much he loves.
He loves, 'tis true; and is belov'd again :
Great are his joys; but will they long remain?
Emma with smiles receives his present flame;
But, smiling, will she ever be the same?
Beautiful looks are rul'd by fickle minds;
And summer seas are turn'd by sudden winds.
Another love may gain her easy youth:
Time changes thought, and flattery conquers truth.
O impotent estate of human life!
Where Hope and Fear maintain eternal strife;
Where fleeting joy does lasting doubt inspire;
And most we question, what we most desire!
Amongst thy various gifts, great Heaven, bestow
Our cup of love unmix'd; forbear to throw
Bitter ingredients in; nor pall the draught
With nauseous grief: for our ill judging thought
Hardly enjoys the pleasurable taste;
Or deems it not sincere; or fears it cannot last.
With wishes rais'd, with jealousies opprest,
(Alternate tyrants of the human breast)
By one great trial he resolves to prove
The faith of woman, and the force of love.
If, scanning Emma's virtues, he may find
That beauteous frame enclose a steady mind,
He'll fix his hope, of future joy secure ;
And live a slave to Hymen's happy power.

But if the fair-one, as he fears, is frail;
If, pois'd aright in Reason's equal scale,
Light fly her merit, and her faults prevail;
His mind he vows to free from amorous care,
The latent mischief from his heart to tear,
Resume his azure arms, and shine again in war.
South of the castle, in a verdant glade,

A spreading beech extends her friendly shade.
Here oft the nymph his breathing vows had heard;
Here oft her silence had her heart declar'd.
As active Spring awak'd her infant buds,
And genial life inform'd the verdant woods;
Henry, in knots involving Emma's name,
Had half express'd, and half conceal'd, his flame,
Upon this tree: and, as the tender mark
Grew with the year, and widen'd with the bark,
Venus had heard the virgin's soft address,
That, as the wound, the passion might increase.
As potent Nature shed her kindly showers,
And deck'd the various mead with opening flowers
Upon this tree the nymph's obliging care
Had left a frequent wreath for Henry's hair;
Which, as with gay delight the lover found,
Pleas'd with his conquest, with her present

crown'd,

Glorious through all the plains he oft had gone,
And to each swain the mystic honour shown;
The gift still prais'd, the giver still unknown.

His secret note the troubled Henry writes:
To the lone tree the lovely maid invites:
Imperfect words and dubious terms express,
That unforeseen mischance disturb'd his peace;
That he must something to her ear commend,
On which her conduct and his life depend.

Soon as the fair-one had the note receiv'd,
The remnant of the day alone she griev'd:
For different this from every former note,
Which Venus dictated, and Henry wrote;
Which told her all his future hopes were laid
On the dear bosom of his Nut brown Maid;
Which always bless'd her eyes, and own'd her
power;

And bid her oft adieu, yet added more.

Now night advanc'd. The house in sleep were laid
The nurse experienc'd, and the prying maid,
And, last, that sprite, which does incessant haunt
The lover's steps, the ancient maiden-aunt.
To her dear Henry, Emma wings her way,
With quicken'd pace repairing fore'd delay;
For Love, fantastic power, that is afraid
To stir abroad till Watchfulness be laid,
Undaunted then o'er cliffs and valleys strays,
And leads his votaries safe through pathless ways
Not Argus, with his hundred eyes, shall find
Where Cupid goes; though he, poor guide! i
blind.

The maiden first arriving, sent her eye
To ask, if yet its chief delight were nigh: -.
With fear and with desire, with joy and pain,
She sees, and runs to meet him on the plain.
But, oh! his steps proclaim no lover's haste:
On the low ground his fix'd regards are cast;
His artful bosom heaves dissembled sighs;
And tears suborn'd fall copious from his eyes.
With case, alas! we credit what we love:
His painted grief does real sorrow move
In the aiBicted fair; adown her cheek
Trickling the genuine tears their current break;
Attentive stood the mournful nymph: the man
Broke silence first: the tale alternate ran

HENRY.

SINCERE, O tell me, hast thou felt a pain,
Emina, beyond what woman knows to feign?
Has thy uncertain bosom ever strove
With the first tumults of a real love?

Hast thou now drcaded, and now blest his sway,
By turns averse, and joyful to obey?
Thy virgin softness hast thou e'er bewail'd,
As Reason yielded, and as Love prevail'd?
And wept the potent god's resistless dart,
His killing pleasure, his ecstatic smart,

And heavenly poison thrilling through thy heart?
If so, with pity view my wretched state;
At least deplore, and then forget my fate:
To some more happy knight reserve thy charms,
By Fortune favour'd, and successful arms;
And only, as the Sun's revolving ray
Brings back each year this melancholy day,
Permit one sigh, and set apart one tear,
To an abandon'd exile's endless care.
For me, alas! out-cast of human race,
Love's anger only waits, and dire disgrace;
For, lo! these hands in murther are imbrued;
These trembling feet by Justice are pursued:
Fate calls aloud, and hastens me away;
A shameful death attends my longer stay;
And I this night must fly from thee and love,
Condemn'd in lonely woods, a banish'd man, to rove.

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
To send the arrow from the twanging yew;
And, great in arms, and foremost in the war,
Bonduca brandish'd high the British spear.
Could thirst of vengeance and desire of fame
Excite the female breast with martial flame?
And shall not love's diviner power inspire
More hardy virtue, and more generous fire?

Near thee, mistrust not, constant I'll abide,
And fall, or vanquish, fighting by thy side.
Though my inferior strength may not allow
That I should bear or draw the warrior bow;
With ready hand I will the shaft supply,
And joy to see thy victor arrows fly.
Touch'd in the battle by the hostile reed,
Should'st thou, (but Heaven avert it!) should'st
thou bleed;

To stop the wounds, my finest lawn I'd tear,
Wash them with tears, and wipe them with my hair;
Blest, when my dangers and my toils have shown
That I, of all mankind, could love but thee alone.

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

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