Who set the twigs, shall he remember
That is in haste to sell the timber?
And what shall of thy woods remain,
Except the box that threw the main?
Nay, may not time and death remove
The near relations whom I love?
And my Coz Tom, or his Coz Mary,
(Who hold the plough or skim the dairy)
My favourite books and pictures sell
To Smart, or Doiley, by the ell?
Kindly throw in a little figure,
And set their price upon the bigger?
Those who could never read their grammar,
When my dear volumes touch the hammer,
May think books best as richest bound:
My copper medals by the pound
May be with learned justice weigh'd;
To turn the balance, Otho's head
May be thrown in; and, for the metal,
The coin may mend a tinker's kettle-
Tired with these thoughts' Less tired than I,
(Quoth Dick) with your philosophy-
That people live and die, I knew
An hour ago, as well as you;
And if Fate spins us longer years,
Or is in haste to take the shears,
I know we must both fortunes try,
And bear our evils, wet or dry.
Yet let the goddess smile or frown,
Bread we shall eat, or white or brown,
And in a cottage, or a court,
Drink fine champaigne or muddled port.
What need of books these truths to tell,
Which folks perceive who cannot spell?
And must we spectacles apply
To view what hurts our naked eye?
Sir, if it be your wisdom's aim,
To make me merrier than I am,
I'll be all night at your devotion-
Come on, friend; broach the pleasing notion;
But if you would depress my thought,
Your system is not worth a groat-
For Plato's fancies what care I?
I hope you would not have me die,
Like simple Cato in the play,
For any thing that he can say?
E'en let him of ideas speak
To heathens in his native Greek.
If to be sad is to be wise,
I do most heartily despise
Whatever Socrates has said,
Or Tully writ, or Wanley' read.
'Dear Drift, to set our matters right,
Remove these papers from my sight;
Burn Mat's Descartes and Aristotle:
Here, Jonathan, your master's bottle.'
5 Humphrey Wanley, the learned librarian to Lord Oxford.
6 Adrian Drift, Esq. Mr. Prior's secretary and executor.
WRITTEN THREE HUNDRED YEARS SINCE.
Be it right or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne;
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vaine,
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man againe:
For lete a man do what he can,
Theyr favour to attayne;
Yet, yf a new do them pursue,
Theyr furst trew lover than
Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banishyd man.
1 Originally printed, without any denotation of its author, in a folio volume commonly called Arnold's Chronicle, or the Customs of London;' which Mr. Capell supposes to have appeared about 1521, and Mr. Herbert some years earlier. In the Muses' Mercury for June, 1707, it was conjectured to be near three hundred years old, and probably on that authority Prior confided: as Dr. Percy seems to conclude, it had the sanction of the learned Wanley. The persons represented are surmised to be the Earl of Westmorland's son, and a lady of equal quality.
I say not nay, but that all day
It is bothe writ and sayde,
That woman's fayth is, as who saythe,
All utterly decayed:
But, nevertheless, right good wytness
In this case might be layde,
That they love trewe, and continew;
Record the Nut-brown Mayde;
Which from her love (when her to prove
He came to make his mone)
Wold not depart, for in her hart
She loved but hym alone.
Than betweene us, lett us discusse,
What was all the manere
Between them too: we wyl also
Telle all the payne and fere,
That she was in. Now I begyn,
So that ye me answere:
Wherefore all ye, that present be,
I pray ye give an eare.
MAN. I am the knyght; I come by nyght
As secret as I can,
Saying, alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banishyd man.
WOм. And I your wylle for to fulfyll
In this wyl not refuse;
Trusting to shewe, in wordis fewe,
That men have an yll use,
(To theyr own shame) women to blame,
And causelesse them accuse;
Therefore to you I answere now,
Alle women to excuse :-
Myn own hart dere, with you what chere?
I pray you, telle anone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.
MAN. It stondeth so; a dede is do,
Whereof grete harm shall growe;
My desteny is for to dye
A shamefull deth, I trowe,
Or elles to flee the one must be,
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe, as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherefore adew, my owne hart trewe,
None other rede I can;
For I must to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
WOм. O Lord! what is this worldis blysse, That chaungeth as the mone?
My somer's day, in lusty May,
Is derked before the none.
I here you saye, farewell: nay, nay,
We depart not so sone.
Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye goe?
Alas! what have ye done?
Alle my welfare to sorrowe and care
Shulde chaunge, yf ye were gone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.
MAN. I can beleve, it shall you greeve,
And somewhat you distrayne,
But aftyrwarde, your paynes harde,
Within a day or tweyne,
|