Thou cursed pen, said he, 'woe-worth the bird

thee bare;

The man, the knife, and all that made thee, woe be to their share:

Woe-worth the time and place where I so could indite;

And woe be it yet once again, the pen that so can write.

Unhappy hand! it had been happy time for me, If when to write thou learned first, unjointed hadst thou be.'

Thus cursed he himself, and every other wight, Save her alone whom love him bound to serve both day and night.

Which when I heard, and saw how he himself for-did;1

Against the ground with bloody strokes, himself e'en there to rid;

Had been my heart of flint, it must have melted

tho'; my

For in life I never saw a man so full of woe. With tears, for his redress, I rashly to him ran, And in my arms I caught him fast, and thus I spake him than :

'What woful wight art thou, that in such heavy

case

Torments thyself with such despite, here in this desart place?'

Wherewith, as all aghast, fulfill'd with ire and dread,

He cast on me a staring look, with colour pale and

'Nay, what art thou,' quoth he, 'that in this heavy

plight

Dost find me here, most woful wretch, that life hath in despite ?'

'I am,' quoth I, but poor, and simple in degree; A shepherd's charge I have in hand, unworthy though I be.'

With that he gave a sigh, as though the sky should

fall,

And loud, alas! he shrieked oft, and, Shepherd,'

6

gan he call,

Come, hie thee fast at once, and print it in thy

heart,

So thou shalt know, and I shall tell thee, guiltless how I smart.'

His back against the tree sore feebled all with faint, With weary sprite he stretcht him up, and thus he told his plaint:

'Once in my heart,' quoth he, it chanced me to

love

Such one, in whom hath Nature wrought, her cunning for to prove.

And sure I cannot say, but many years were spent, With such good will so recompens'd, as both we

were content.

Whereto then I me bound, and she likewise also, The sun should run his course awry, ere. we this faith forego.

Who joyed then but I? who had this worldès bliss? Who might compare a life to mine, that never thought on this?

But dwelling in this truth, amid my greatest joy, Is me befallen a greater loss than Priam had of Troy.

She is reversed clean, and beareth me in hand, That my deserts have given cause to break this faithful band:

And for my just excuse availeth no defence. Now knowest thou all; I can no more; but, Shepherd, hie thee hence,

And give him leave to die, that may no longer live : Whose record, lo! I claim to have, my death I do forgive.

And eke when I am gone, be bold to speak it plain, Thou hast seen die the truest man that ever love

did pain.'

Wherewith he turned him round, and gasping oft for breath,

Into his arms a tree he raught, and said: 'Welcome my death!

Welcome a thousand fold, now dearer unto me Than should, without her love to live, an emperor to be.'

Thus in this woful state he yielded up the ghost; And little knoweth his lady, what a lover she hath

lost.

Whose death when I beheld, no marvel was it, right For pity though my heart did bleed, to see so piteous sight.

My blood from heat to cold oft changed wonders

sore;

A thousand troubles there I found I never knew

before:

"Tween dread and dolour so my sprites were brought

in fear,

That long it was ere I could call to mind what I did there.

But as each thing hath end, so had these pains of

mine:

The furies past, and I my wits restor❜d by length of time.

Then, as I could devise, to seek I thought it best Where I might find some worthy place for such a corse to rest.

And in my mind it came, from thence not far away, Where Cressid's love, king Priam's son, the worthy Troilus lay.

By him I made his tomb, in token he was true, And, as to him belonged well, I covered it with blue. Whose soul by angels' power departed not so soon, But to the heavens, lo! it fled, for to receive his doom.

COMPLAINT OF THE ABSENCE OF HER LOVER, BEING UPON THE SEA.

OOD ladies! ye that have your pleasures in exile,

Step in your foot, come, take a place, and mourn with me awhile:

And such as by their lords do set but little price, Let them sit still, it skills them not what chance

But

come on the dice.

ye whom Love hath bound, by order of desire, To love your lords, whose good deserts none other would require;

Come ye yet once again, and set your foot by mine,

Whose woful plight, and sorrows great, no tongue may well define.

My love and lord, alas! in whom consists my wealth,

Hath fortune sent to pass the seas, in hazard of his health.

Whom I was wont t'embrace with well contented

mind,

Is now amid the foaming floods at pleasure of the

wind.

Where God well him preserve, and soon him home me send;

Without which hope my life, alas! were shortly at an end.

Whose absence yet, although my hope doth tell me plain,

With short return he comes anon, yet ceaseth not my pain.

The fearful dreams I have ofttimes do grieve me

So,

That when I wake, I lie in doubt, where they be

true or no.

Sometime the roaring seas, me seems, do grow so

high,

That my dear lord, ay me! alas! methinks I see him die.

Another time the same doth tell me, he is come, And playing, where I shall him find, with his fair little son.1

In the copy printed by Dr. Nott from the Harrington MS. this line stands,

"And playing, where I shall him find with T. his little son." which induces that writer to observe: "This proves the piece