poems in manuscript, which may or may not have been by the same author. At all events, the three stanzas are there inserted, and I copied them out for the sake of comparison with the two stanzas assigned to Nash in the Intro

(But in torments all distressed,
Hopelesse how to be redressed,
All with howling and with crying
Live in a continuall dying)

Sing a dirge on Spencer's death,
Till your soules be out of breath.

"Bidde the dunces keepe their dennes,
And the poets breake their pennes:
Bidde the Sheepheards shed their teares,
And the Nymphes go teare their haires:
Bidde the schollers leave their reading,
And prepare their hearts to bleeding:

Bidde the valiant and the wise
Full of sorrowes fill their eyes,

All for griefe that he is gone
Who did grace them every one.

"Fairy Queene, shew fairest Queene
How her farie in thee is seene:
Sheepeheards Calender set downe
How to figure best a clowne:
As for Mother Hubberts tale
Cracke the nut and take the shale;

And for other workes of worth,

(All too good to wander forth)

Grieve that ever you were wrot,
And your Author be forgot.

"Farewell Arte of Poetry,

Scorning idle foolery:

Farewell true conceited reason,

Where was never thought of treason:

duction to "Pierce Penniless." They may be thought worth printing in the Papers of the Shakespeare Society, connected as they are with one of its recent publications: I therefore transcribe them, observing merely that the original MS. is decidedly of the latter end of the reign of Elizabeth. They have no title, nor any signature or other mark of authorship at the end, but run thus:—

"I see my hopes must wither in the budde;
I see my favours are no lasting flowers;

I see that words will breede no better good
Then losse of tyme, and lyghtninge but at howers.
Thus when I see, then thus I say therefore,
That favours, hopes and wordes can blynd no more.

"If floodes of teares could cleanse my follies past,
Or smokes of sythes myght sacrifyes for sinne;
If gronyng cryes could salve my faulte at last,
Or endlesse mone for error pardon winne,

Farewell judgement, with invention

To describe a heart's intention:
Farewell wit, whose sound and sense

Shewe a Poet's excellence :

Farewell all in one togither,

And with Spencer's garland wither.

"And if any graces live

That will vertue honour give,

Let them shewe their true affection

In the depth of griefe's perfection,

In describing forth her glory,
When she is most deepely sory,
That they all may wish to heare,
Such a song, and such a quier,

As, with all their woes they have,
Follow Spenser to the grave."

Then wold I crye, weepe, sythe, and ever mone,
Myne error, fault, sinns, folly, past and gone.

66

Prayse blyndnes (eyes) for seeinge is deceyte ;

Be dumbe, vayne tounge, wordes are but flatteryng wyndes;
Breake harte and bleed, for there is no receyt

To purge inconstancy from most mens myndes.
And so I wak't amaz'd, and could not move:
I knowe my dreame was true, and yett I love."

These stanzas follow each other exactly as I have copied them, but it seems to me doubtful whether the last be not a fragment of some other poem in which the writer fancies himself dreaming: I cannot but feel persuaded that I have read it somewhere else. Whether the lines are by Nash, or Breton, or by some other poet of the time, I cannot pretend to determine. Perhaps some member of the Shakespeare Society will be able to decide the point, and will convey the information to me in the next publication of its Papers.

G. L.

ART. XIX.-Ballad, illustrative of a passage in "The Taming of the Shrew."

In "The Taming of the Shrew," act ii., sc. 1, occur the following lines:

"We will have rings, and things, and fine array;

And, kiss me, Kate, We will be married o' Sunday."

It has always seemed to me, and perhaps to some others, that the lines were either quoted or adapted from some ballad of the time; and, several years since, an old gentleman, of the name of Wilson, who had, I believe, been a printer in York, gave me the copy of a ballad, which he had put in type, and which he informed me he had received in his youth from a very ancient relative. Mr. Wilson was at that date more than seventy years old, and I understood that his aunt, who was his authority, was considerably older when she recited the ballad to him. This would carry back the production about one hundred and forty years, and I have no doubt that it is considerably older, and possibly the very production alluded to by Petruchio. Be this as it may, the Shakespeare Society will probably think the relic worth preserving in some way, considering the nature of the burden of it, and its resemblance to the exclamation of Petruchio," We will be married o' Sunday," when, in fact, that does not appear to have been the day on which he intended to be united to Katherine. However, the reader will be able to judge for himself.

I'M TO BE MARRIED O' SUNDAY.

As I walk'd forth one May morning,
I heard a fair maid sweetly sing,
As she sat under her cow milking,

We will be married o' Sunday.

VOL. I.

I said, pretty maiden, sing not so,
For you must tarry seven years or mo,
And then to church you may chance to go
All to be married o' Sunday.

Kind sir, quoth she, you have no skill;
I've tarried two years against my will,
And I've made a promise, will I, or nill,
That I'll be married o' Sunday.

Next Saturday night 'twill be my care
To trim and curl my maiden hair,
And all the people shall say, Look there!
When I come to be married o' Sunday.

Then to the church I shall be led
By sister Nan and brother Ned,

With a garland of flowers upon my head,
For I'm to be married o' Sunday.

Then on my finger I'll have a ring,
Not one of rush, but a golden thing;
And I shall be glad as a bird in spring,
Because I am married o' Sunday.

And in the church I must kneel down
Before the parson of our good town;
But I will not soil my kirtle and gown,
When I am married o' Sunday.

Then the bells shall ring so merry and loud;
And Robin shall go before with his crowd,
But no one shall say I was silly or proud,
Though I was married o' Sunday.

G