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Who-so-euer dyd winne thou wolde not lose;
Wherfore all Englande doth hate the, as I suppose,
Bycause thou wast false to the redolent rose.

Synge, &c.


Thou myghtest have learned thy cloth to flocke
Upon thy gresy fullers stocke;
Wherfore lay downe thy heade vpon this blocke.

Synge, &c.

Yet faue that foule, that God hath bought,
And for thy carcas care thou nought,
Let it futfre payne, as it hath.wrought.

45 Synge, &c.

God faue kyng Henry with all his power,
And prynce Edwarde that goodly flowre,
With al hys lordes of great honoure.

Synge trolle on awaye, syng trolle on away.
Hevye and how rombelowe trolle on awaye.


. 41. Cromwell's father is generally said to bave been a Blacksmith at Putney: but the author of this Ballod would infinuate that either be bimself or some of his ancestors were Fullers by trade.

+++ The foregoing Piece gave rise to a poetic controversy, which was carried on thro' a succession of seven or eight Ballads written for and against Lord Cromwell. These are all preserved in the archives of the Antiquarian Society, in a large folio Collection of Proclamations, &c. made in the Reigns of K. Hen. VIII. K. Edw.VI. 2. Mary, 2. Eliz. K. James I. & C.

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H A R P A L U S.


This beautiful poem, which is perhaps the first attempt at paftoral writing in our language, is preserved among the SONGS AND SONNETTES of the earl of Surrey, &c. 4to. in that part of the collection, which confifts of pieces by UNCERTAIN AUCTOURS. These poems were first published in 1557, ten years after that accomplished nobleman fell a victim to the tyranny of Henry VIII: but it is presumed most of them were composed before the death of fir Thomas Wyatt in 1541. See Surrey's Poems, 4to. fol. 19, 49.

Tho* written perhaps near half a century before the SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR *, this will be found far superior te any of those Eclogues, in natural unaffeeted sentiments, in fimplicity of Ryle, in easy flow of versification, and all other beauties of pastoral poetry. Spenser ought to have profiter more by fo excellent a model.

HYLIDA was a faire mayde,

As as any ;
Whom Harpalus the herdman prayde
To be his



Harpalus, and eke Corin,

Were herdmen both yfere :
And Phylida could twist and spinne,

And thereto sing full clere.

* First published in 1579.


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Harpalus prevailed nought,

His labour all was loft ;
For he was fardest from her thought,

And yet he loved her most.


Therefore waxt he both pale and leane,

And drye as clot of clay :
His fleshe it was consumed cleane;

His colour gone away.


His beard it had not long be shave;

His heare hong all unkempt :
A man most fit even for the grave,

Whom spitefull love had spent.

F 3


His eyes were red, and all • forewacht';

His face besprent with teares :
It semde unhap had him long hatcht',

In mids of his difpaires.


His clothes were blacke, and also bare;

As one forlorpe was he; ; Upon his head alwayes he ware

Ą wreath of wyllow tree.


His beastes he kept upon the hyll,

And he late in the dale;
And thus with fighes and sorrowes hril,

He gan to tell his tale.


Oh Harpalus! (thus would he say)

Unhappieft under funne!
The cause of thine unhappy day,

By love was first begunne.

For thou wentest first by sute to seeke

A tigre to make tame,
That settes not by thy love a leeke;

But makes thy griefe her game.


As easy it were for to convert

The frost into 'a' fame;
As for to turne a frowarde hert,

Whom thou so faine wouldst frame.


Wer. 33. &c. The Corrections are from Ed. 1574.

Corin he liveth carèléffe:

He leapes among the leaves :
He eates the frutes of thy redresse:

Thou - reapít', he takes the sheaves,


My beaftes, a whyle your foode refraine,

And harke your herdmans founde: Whom spitefull love, alas ! hath Naine,

Through-girt with many a wounde,


O happy be ye, beastès wilde,

That here your pasture takes ; 1 fe that ye be not begilde

Of these your faithfull makes,


The hart he feedeth by the hinde;

The bucke harde by the do: The turtle dove is not unkinde

To him that loves her fo.

The ewe she hath by her the ramme:

The yong cow hath the bull: The calfe with many a lusty lambe

Do fede their hunger full.


But, wel-away! that nature wrought

The, Phylida, fo faire;
Por I may say that I have bought
Thy beauty all tò deare.


80 What

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