Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu!
You see what comes of fooling:
That is the fittest place for you;
Your courage wanted cooling.
Ere many days, in her fathers park,
Just at the close of eve-a,
Again she met with her angry sparke;
Which made this lady grieve-a.
False lady, here thou 'rt in my powre,
And no one now can hear thee:
And thou shalt sorely rue the hour
That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me.
I pray, sir knight, be not so warm
With a young silly maid-a:
I vow and swear I thought no harm,
'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.
A gentle jest, in soothe he cry'd,
To tumble me in and leave me!
What if I had in the river dy'd?-
That fetch will not deceive me.
Once more I'll pardon thee this day,
Tho' injur'd out of measure;
But thou prepare without delay
To yield thee to my pleasure.
Well then, if I must grant your suit,
Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir:
Let me pull off both spur and boot,
Or else you cannot stir, sir.
He set him down upon the grass,
And begg'd her kind assistance:
Now, smiling, thought this lovely lass,
I'll make you keep your distance.
Then pulling off his boots half-way;
Sir knight, now I'm your betters:
You shall not make of me your prey;
Sit there like a knave in fetters.
The knight, when she had served him soe,
He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled: For he could neither stand nor goe, But like a cripple tumbled.
Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten,
Yet do not move nor stir, sir:
I'll send you my father's serving men,
To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.
This merry jest you must excuse,
You are but a stingless nettle:
You'd never have stood for boots or shoes,
Had you been a man of mettle.
All night in grievous rage he lay,
Rolling upon the plain-a;
Next morning a shepherd past that way,
Who set him right again-a.
Then mounting upon his steed so tall,
By hill and dale he swore-a:
I'll ride at once to her father's hall;
She shall escape no more-a.
I'll take her father by the beard,
I'll challenge all her kindred;
Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;
My wrath shall no more be hindred.
He rode unto her father's house,
Which every side was moated:
The lady heard his furious vows,
And all his vengeance noted.
Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage,
Once more I will endeavour:
This water shall your fury 'swage,
Or else it shall burn for ever.
Then faining penitence and feare,
She did invite a parley:
Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare,
Henceforth I'll love you dearly.
My father he is now from home,
And I am all alone, sir:
Therefore across the water come,
And I am all your own, sir.
False maid, thou canst no more deceive;
I scorn the treacherous bait-a;
If thou would'st have me thee believe,
Now open me the gate-a.
The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd,
My father he has the keys, sir;
But I have for my love prepar'd
A shorter way, and easier.
Over the moate I've laid a plank
Full seventeen feet in measure,
Then step across to the other bank,
And there we'll take our pleasure.
These words she had no sooner spoke,
But straight he came tripping over:
The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke,
And sous'd the unhappy lover.
ONCE on a time, in sunshine weather,
Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together,
The neighboring woods and lawns to view,
As opposites will sometimes do.
Through many a blooming mead they passed,
And at a brook arriv'd at last.
The purling stream, the margin green,
With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene,
Invited each itinerant maid,
To rest a while beneath the shade.
Under a spreading beach they sat,
And pass'd the time with female chat;
Whilst each her character maintain'd;
One spoke her thoughts, the other feign'd.
At length, quoth Falsehood, sister Truth
(For so she call'd her from her youth),
What if, to shun yon sultry beam,
We bathe in this delightful stream;
The bottom smooth, the water clear,
And there's no prying shepherd near?—
With all my heart, the nymph replied,
And threw her snowy robes aside,
Stript herself naked to the skin,
And with a spring leapt headlong in.
Falsehood more leisurely undrest,
And, laying by her tawdry vest,
Trick'd herself out in Truth's array,
And 'cross the meadows tript away.
From this curst hour, the fraudful dame
Of sacred Truth usurps the name,
And, with a vile, perfidious mind,
Roams far and near, to cheat mankind;
False sighs suborns, and artful tears,
And starts with vain pretended fears;
In visits, still appears most wise,
And rolls at church her saint-like eyes;
Talks very much, plays idle tricks,
While rising stock* her conscience pricks;
When being, poor thing, extremely gravel'd,
The secrets op'd, and all unravel'd.
But on she will, and secrets tell
Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell,
Reviling every one she knows,
As fancy leads, beneath the rose.
Her tongue, so voluble and kind,
It always runs before her mind;
As times do serve, she slyly pleads,
And copious tears still show her needs.
With promises as thick as weeds—
Speaks pro and con., is wondrous civil,
To-day a saint, to-morrow devil.
Poor Truth she stript, as has been said,
And naked left the lovely maid,
Who, scorning from her cause to wince, gone stark-naked ever since;
And ever naked will appear,
Belov'd by all who Truth revere.
SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
FANNY, beware of flattery,
Your sex's much-lov'd enemy;
For other foes we are prepar'd,
And Nature puts us on our guard:
In that alone such charms are found,
We court the dart, we nurse the hand;
And this, my child, an Esop's Fable
Will prove much better than I'm able.
A young vain female Crow,
Had perch'd upon a pine tree's bough,
And sitting there at ease,
Was going to indulge her taste,
In a most delicious feast,
Consisting of a slice of cheese.
A sharp-set Fox (a wily creature)
Pass'd by that way
In search of prey;
When to his nose the smell of cheese,
Came in a gentle western breeze;
No Welchman knew, or lov'd it better:
He bless'd th' auspicious wind,
And strait look'd round to find,
What might his hungry stomach fill,
And quickly spied the Crow,
Upon a lofty bough,
Holding the tempting prize within her bill.
But she was perch'd too high,
And Reynard could not fly :
|