He. Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent✰ I have purvayed me of a mayd, And of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe It were myne ese, to lyve in pese; Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, She. Though in the wode I undyrstode All this may nought remove my thought, And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde, Commaunde me to my power: For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, For, in my mynde, of all mankynde He. Myne owne dere love, I se the prove That ye be kynde, and true; Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe, The best that ever I knewe. Be mery and glad, be no more sad, The case is chaunged nowe; For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe, I wyll nat to the grene wode go, She. These tydings be more gladd to me, Yf I were sure they sholde endure: Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, And stele from me, I wene: Than, were the case worse than it was, For, in my mynde, of all mankynde He. Ye shall nat nede further to drede; You, (God defend!) syth ye descend Nowe undyrstande; to Westmarlande, I wyll you brynge; and with a rynge, I wyll you take, and lady make, Thus have you won an erlys son, And not a banyshed man.' Author. "Here may ye se, that women be In love, meke, kynde, and stable: Late never man reprove them than, Or call them variable; But rather, pray God, that we may To them be comfortable; Which sometyme proveth such, as he loveth, Yf they be charytable. For syth men wolde that women sholde Be meke to them each one; Moche more ought they to God obey, This fine old Ballad is the original of Prior's Henry and Emma, and on that account, though its merit was of a much more questionable kind, intitled to particular notice. Its author has not even been guessed at, and its date is conjectural. It was revived in "The Muses' Mercury," for June, 1707, and, by the united judgment of the learned Wanley, and the poet Prior, was concluded to be then above three hundred years old. Later, and perhaps more discerning antiquarians, have supposed its era to be about the end of the 14th or beginning of the 15th century. THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. Now ponder well, you parents deare, Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, In love they liv'd, in love they dyed, -The one a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three yeares olde; As plainly doth appeare, When he to perfect age should come, And to his little daughter Jane Their uncle should possesse their wealth; Now, brother, said the dying man, You must be father and mother both, God knowes what will become of them, With that bespake their mother deare, You are the man must bring our babes And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, These speeches then their brother spake The keeping of your little ones God never prosper me nor mine, The parents being dead and gone, He bargain'd with two ruffians strong, He told his wife an artful tale, He would the children send Away then went these pretty babes, So that the pretty speeche they had, Yet one of them more hard of heart, |