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Here cometh none in, sayd the porter,
| Then Cloudeslè cast his eyen asyde, Be hym that dyed on a tre,
And saw hys brethren twaine Tyll a false thefe be hanged up
At a corner of the market-place, Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
Redy the justice for to slaine. Then spake the good yeman Clym of the Clough, | I se comfort, sayd Cloudesle, And swore by Mary fre:
Yet hope I well to fare, An if that we stande long without,
If I might have my hands at wyll Lyk a thefe honge thou shalt be.
Ryght lytle wolde I care. Lo! here we have the kyngès seale:
Then bespake good Adam Bell What, lurden, art thou wode?
To Clym of the Clough so free: The porter went it had been so,
Brother, se ye marke the justice wel; And lyghtly dyd off hys hode.
Lo! yonder ye may him see : Welcome be my lordes seale, he sayde ;
And at the sherife shote I wyll For that ye shall come in.
Strongly wyth arrowe kene;
A better shote in mery Carleile He opened the gate full shortlye ;
Thys seven yere was not sene. An euyl openyng for him.
They loosed their arrowes both at once,
Of no man had thei dread;
The one hyt the justice, the other the sheryke, How we shall com out agayne..
That both theyr sides gan blede.
All men voyded, that them stode nye, Had we the keys, sayd Clim of the Clough,
When the justice fell to the grounde,
And the sheryf fell hym by;
Eyther had his deathes wounde.
All the citizens fast gan flye, They called the porter to counsell,
They durst no lenger abyde :
There lyghtly they loosed Cloudeslè,
Where he with ropes lay tyde.
Wyllyam sterte to an officer of the towne, Now am I porter, sayd Adam Bell,
His axe fro hys hand he wronge, Se, brother, the keys are here,
On eche syde he smote them downe, The worst porter to merry Carleile
Hym thought he taryed to long. They have had thys hundred yere.
Wyllyam saide to his brethren two; And now wyll we our bowes bend,
Thys daye let us lyve and de; Into the towne wyll we go,
If ever you have nede as I have now, For to delyuer our dere brother,
The same shall you finde by me. That lyeth in care and wo.
They shot so well in that tyde, Then they bent theyr good yewe bowes,
Theyr stringes were of silke ful sure, And loked theyr stringes were sound, That they kept the stretes on erery side ; The markett place in mery Carleile
That batayle did long endure. They beset that stound.
The fought together as brethren tru, And, as they loked them besyde,
Lyke hardy men and bolde, A pair of new galowes thei see,
Many a man to the ground they thrue, And the justice, with a quest of squyers,
And many a herte made colde. Had judged theyr fere to de:
But when their arrowes were all gon, And Cloudeslè himselfe lay in a carte,
Men preced to them full fast, Fast bound both fote and hand;
They drew their swordes then anone, And a stronge rope about hys necke,
And theyr bowes from them cast. All readye for to hange.
They wenten lyghtlye on theyr way, The justice called to hym a ladde,
With swords and bucklers round: Clondeslès clothes should he have,
By that it was myd of the day, To take the measure of that yemàn,
| They made mani a wound. Therafler to make bys grave.
There was many a nout-horne in Carleile I have sene as great marveile, sayde Cloudesle, blowen, As betweyne thys and pryme,
And the belles backward did ryng, He that makesh thys grave for me
Many a woman sayde, Alas! Hymiselfe may lýe therin.
And many theyr handes did wryag. Thou speakest proudli, sayd the justice, The mayre of Carleile forth was com, I shall the hange with my hande.
Wyth hym a full great route : Full well herd this his bretheren two, These yemen dred him full sore, There styll as they did stande.
of their lyves they stode in doutc.
The mayre came armed a full great pace, Herof to speake, said Adam Bell,
Iwis it is no bote :
The meate that we must supp withall,
It runneth yet fast on fote.
These noble archares thre;
Eche of them slew a hart of greece, Alas! ihey cryed for wo.
The best that they could se. Keepe we the gates fast, they bad,
Have here the best, Alyce my wyfe, That these traytours thereout not go.
Sayde Wyllyam of Cloudeslye ;
When I was slayne full nye.
Then went they to theyr suppère
Wyth suche meate as they had; Have here your keys, sayd Adam Bel,
And ihanked God of their fortune,
They were both mery and glad.
And when thei had supped well,
Certain wythouten lease, And bade them well to thryve,
Cloudeslè sayd, We wyll to our kyng, And all that letteth any good yeman
To get us a charter of peace. To com and comfort his wyfe.
Alyce shal be at our sojournyng, Thus be these good yemen gon to the wod,
In a nunnery here besyde; And lyghtly, as lefe on lynde;
My tow sons shall wyth her go, The lough and be mery in theyre mode,
And there they shall abyde. Theyr foes wer ferr behind.
Myne eldest son shall go wyth me; And when they came to the old Englishe wode,
For hyın have you no care;
And he shall breng you worde agayn,
How that we all do fare.
Thus be these yemen to London gone, So God me help, sayd Adam Bell,
As fast as they might he*, And Clyan of the Clough so fre,
Tyll they came io the kyng's pallace, I would we were in mery Carleile,
Where they would nedes be. Before that fayre meyvè.
And whan they came to the kyngès courte, They set them downe, and made good chere,
Unto the pallace-gate, And eate and dranke full well.
Of no man wold they ask no leave, A Second Fyt of the wighty ycomen:
But boldly went in therat.
The preced prestly, went into the hall,
Of no man had they dreade:
The porter came after, and dyd them call, As they sat in Englyshe wood,
And with them gan to chyde.
The usher sayde, Yemen, what would ye have? But her they mought not se.
I pray you tell to me: Sore then syghed the fayre Alyce:
You myght thus make offycers shent : That ever I sawe thys daye!
Good syrs, of whence be ye? For Dowe is my dere husband slayne:
Syr, we be outlawes of the forest, i Alas! and well-a-day!
Certayne withouten lease : Might I have spoke with his dere brethren,
And heiher we be come to our kyng, Or with eyther of them twayne,
To get us a charter of peace. To shew them what bim befell,
And whan they came before the kyng, My heart were out of payne.
As it was the lawe of the lande, Cloudeslè walk'd a little beside,
| They kneied downe without lettyng, Lookt under the green-wood linde,
And eche held up his hand.
Thai ye will graunt us grace:
For we have slayne your fat falow-dere Under this trusti tre:
In many a sondry place. I wende yesterday, by sweete sayot John,
What be your namns, then said our kyng, Thou shoulde me never have see.
Anone that you tell ine? “ Now well is me that ye be here,
They said, Adain Bell, Clin of the Clough, My harte is out of wo."
And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
• Hje, hasten.
Be ye those theves, then sayd our kyng, | How fareth my justice, sayd the kyog, That men have tolde of to me?
And my sherife also ? Here to God I make an avowe,
Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge, Ye shall be hanged all thre.
And many an officer mo. Ye shal be dead without mercy,
Who hath them slayne ? sayd the kyng: As I am kynge of this lande.
Anone thou tell to me. He commandeth his officers every one, Adam Bell, and Clim of the Clough, Fast on them to lay hande.
And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè. There they toke these good yemen,
Alas for rewth! then sayd our kynge, And arrested them all thre:
My hart is wonderous sore; So may I thryve, said Adam Bell,
I had lever than a thousande pounde, Thys game lyketh not me.
I had known of thys before; But, good lorde, we beseche you now, For I have graunted them grace, That yee graunt us grace,
And that forthynketh me: Insomuche as frelè to you we comen,
But had I knowen all thys before, As frelè fro you to passe,
They had been hanged all thre. With such weapons as we have here,
The kyng he opened the letter anone, Tyll we be out of your place;
Himselfe he read it thro', And yf we lyve this hundreth yere,
And founde how these outlawes had slaine We wyll aske you no grace.
Thre hundred men and mo: Ye speake proudly, sayd the kynge ;
Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe, Ye shall be hanged all thre.
And the mayre of Carleile towne; That were great pity, then said the quene, Of all the constables and catchipolles, If any grace myght be.
Alyve were scant left one. My lorde, when I came fyrst into this lande
The baylyes and the bedyls both, To be your wedded wyfe,
And the sergeaunte of the law, The fyrst boone that I wold aske,
And forty fosters of the fe, Ye wold graunt it me belyfe :
These outlawes had yslaw. And I never asked none tyll now;
And broke his parks, and slayne his dere;
Of all they chose the best;
So perelous outlawes as they were,
Walked not by easte or west. And graunted it shall be.
When the kyng this letter had red, Then, good my lord, I you beseche,
In harte he syghed sore: These yemen graunt ye me.
Take up the tables anone, he bad, Madame, ye myght have asked a boone
For I may eat no more. That should have been worth them all three
The kyng called hys best arcbars, Ye myght have asked towres and townes,
To the buttes with him to go: Parkes and forests plente ;
I wyl see these felowes shote, he sayd, But none soe pleasant to my pay, shee sayd ; In the north have wrought this wo. Nor none so lefe to me.
The kynges bowmen busket them błyre, Madame, sith it is your desire,
. And the quenes archers also: Your asking graunted shal be;
So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen; But I had lever have geven you
With them they thought to go. Good market townes thre.
There twise or thryse they shote about, The quene was a glad woman,
For to assay theyr hande; And sayde, Lord, gramarcyè;
There was no shote those yemen shot I dare undertake for them
That any prycke* myght stand. That true men they shal be.
Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
By him that for me dyed, But, good my lord, speke some mery word,
I hold him wever no good archar,
That shoteth at buites so wyde.
" At what a butte now wold ye shote,
I pray thee tell to me?" They had not setten but a whyle
At such a but, syr, he sayd, Certayne without lesynge,
As men use in my countrè. There came messengers out of the north
Wyllyam went into a fyeld,
With his two bretherène :
Full twenty score betwene.
I hold him an archar, said Cloudeslè, | And I thyrtene pence a day, said the quene, That yonder wand cleveth in two.
By God and by my fay; Here is none suche, sayd the kyng,
Come feche thy payment when thou wylt, Nor none that can so do.
No man shall say the nay. I shall assaye, sir, sayd Cloudesly,
Wyllyam, I make the a gentleman Or that I farther go.
Of clothyng, and of fe : Cloudesly with a bearying arowe
And thy two breathren, yemen of my chambre, Clave ihe wand in two.
For they are so semely to se,
Of my wyne-seller he shall be:
Shall better avaunced be. I have a sonne is seven yeare olde,
And, Wyllyam, bring to me your wise, He is to me full deare;
Me longeth her sore to se; I wyll bym tye to a stake;
She shall be my chefe gentlewoman, All shall se, that be here ;
To govern my nurserye. And lay an apple upon hys head,
The yemen thanketh them courteously: And go syxe score hym fro,
To some bishop wyl we wend, And I my selfe with a broad arów
Of all the synnes that we have done, Shall cleave the apple in two.
To be assoyld at his hand. Now haste the, then said the king;
So forth be gone these good yemen, By hym that dyed on a tre,
As fast as they might be; But yf thou do not as thou hast sagde,
And after came and dwelled with the kynge, Hanged shalt thou le.
And dyed good men all three. An thou touche his head or gowne,
Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen, In syght that men may se,
God send them eternal blysse; By all the sayr,tes that be in heaven,
And all that with a hand-bowe shoteth, I shall hange you all thre.
That of heaven they never mysse. Amen. That I have promised, said Wyllyam, That wyll I never forsake.
§ 106. Song. Willow, willow, willow. And there even before the kynge In the earth he drove a stake:
It is from the following stanzas that Shakspeare has
taken his song of the Willow in his Othello, A. 4. s.3. And bound thereto his eldest sonne,
though somewhat varied, and applied by him to a And bad hym stand styll thercat;
female character. He makes Desdemona introduce And turned the childes face him fro,
it in this pathetic and affecting manner: Because he should not sterte.
“ My mother had a maid call's Barbarie;
She was in love; and he she lov'd forsook her, An apple upon his head he set,
And she prov'd mad. She had a song of Willow; And then his bowe he bent ;
An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune : Syxe score paces they were out mete,
And she dyed singing it.” And thether Cloudeslè went.
A poor soule sat sighing under a sicamore tree, There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe,
() willow, willow, willow! Hys bowe was great and longe;
With his hand on his bosom, his head on his He set that arrowe in his bowe,
knee; That was both styffe and stronge.
O willow, willow, willow ! He prayed the people that wer there,
O willow, willow, willow! That they all still wold stand,
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland! For he that'shoteth for such a wager He sighed in his singing, and after each grone, Behoveth a stedfast hand.
O willow, &c.
I am dead to all pleasure, my true love is gone, Much people prayed for Cloudeslè,
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
My love is turned ; untrue she doth prove:
o willow, &c. But Cloudeslè cleft the apple in twaine,
She renders me nothing but hate for my love. His sonne he did not nee.
O willow, &c. Over Gods forebode, sayde the kynge,
Sing, () the greene willow, &c. That thou shold shote at me.
O pitty me (cried he) ye lovers, each one ; I geve thee eightene pence a day,
O willow, &c. And my bowe shalt thou bere,
Her heart's hard as marble,she rues not my mone. And over all the north countrè,
O willow, &c. I make the chyfe rydère.
| Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
The cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept | O willow, willow, willow! the willow garland, apace ;
O willow, &c. willow, &c.
A signe of her falsenesse, before me doth stand: The salt tears fell from him, which drowned O willow, &c. his face.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c. O willow, &c.
As here it doth bid to despaire and to dye, Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
() willow, &c. The mute birds sat by him, made tame by his So hang it, friends, ore me in grave where I lye. mones :
() willow, &c. O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c. The salt tears fell froin him, which softened
| Ingrave where I rest mee, hang this to the view, the stones.
o willow, &c. O willow, &c.
Of all that doe know her, to blaze her untrae. Sing, Q the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
With these words engraven, as epitaph meet, She was borne, to be faire; I to die for her
O willow, &c. O willow, &c.
“ Here lyes one drank poyson for potion most
sweet." Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c. O that beauty should harbour a heart that's so Sing, O the greene willow, &c. hard!
Though she thus unkindly hath scorned my love, O willow, &c.
O willow, &c. My true love rejecting without all regard.
And carelessly smiles at the sorrowes I prove: O willow, &c.
O willow, &c. , Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
Sing, () the greene willow, &c. Let Love no more boast him in palace or
I cannot against her unkindly exclaim, bower;
( willow, &c. O willow, &c.
Cause once well I lov'd her, and honour'd her For women are trothles, and Aote in an houre.
name. O willow, &c.
() willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c. But what helps complaining? In vain I com
The name of her sounded so sweet in mine eare, plain :
O willow, &c.
It rais'd my heart lightly, the name of my deare.
O willow, &c.
Sing, ( the greene willow, &c.
As then 'twas my comfort, it now is my griese ; O willow, &c.
O willow, &c. He that plaines of his false love, mine's falser
It now brings me anguish, then brought me than she.
reliefe. O willow, &c.
O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c. The willow wreath weare I, since my love did
Farewell, faire false-hearted : plaints end with fleet;
my breath! () willow, &c.
O willow, willow, willow ! A garland for lovers forsaken most meete.
Thou dost loath me, I love thee, though cause O willow, &c.
of my death. Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland!
| O willow, willow, willow! ing, the greene widow shall be my samana. O willow, willow, willow !
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland!
O willow, willow, willow!
§ 107. Barbara Allen's Cruelty. o willow, willow, willow!
In Scarlet towne, where I was borne, O willow, willow, willow !
There was a fair maid dwellin, Sing. Othegreene willow shall be my garlànd! | Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye! O love too injurious, to wound my poor heart !
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merrye month of Maye,
| Young Jemmyc Grove on his death-bed lay, Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
! For love of Barbara Allen,