Great to the ear, though small to sight,
The happy lover's dear delight:

Fly to the bowers where such are laid,
And there bestow thy serenade:
Haste thee from sorrow, haste away,
Alas, there's danger in thy stay,
Lest hearing me so oft complain

Should make thee change thy cheerful strain.

Then cease, thou charmer of the air,
No more in music spend the morn
With me that languish in despair,
Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn;
And do not this poor boon deny,
I ask but silence while I die.

Philip Ayres.-About 1689.

708.-ON THE SIGHT OF HIS
MISTRESS'S HOUSE.

To view these walls each night I come alone,
And pay my adoration to the stone;
Whence joy and peace are influenced on me,
For 'tis the temple of my deity.

As nights and days an anxious wretch by stealth

Creeps out to view the place which hoards his wealth,

So to this house, that keeps from me my heart,

I come, look, traverse, weep, and then depart. Philip Ayres.-About 1689.

709.-THE YOUNG MAN'S WISH.

If I could but attain my wish,
I'd have each day one wholesome dish,
Of plain meat, or fowl, or fish.

A glass of port, with good old beer.
In winter time a fire burnt clear,
Tobacco, pipes, an easy chair.

In some clean town a snug retreat,
A little garden 'fore my gate,
With thousand pounds a year estate.

After my house expense was clear,
Whatever I could have to spare,

The neighbouring poor should freely share.

To keep content and peace through life,
I'd have a prudent cleanly wife,
Stranger to noise, and eke to strife.

Then I, when blest with such estate,
With such a house, and such a mate,
Would envy not the worldly great.

Let them for noisy honours try,
Let them seek worldly praise, while I
Unnoticed would live and die.

But since dame Fortune's not thought fit
To place me in affluence, yet

I'll be content with what I get.

He's happiest far whose humble mind,
Is unto Providence resigned,

And thinketh Fortune always kind.

Then I will strive to bound my wish,
And take, instead of fowl and fish,
Whate'er is thrown into my dish.

Instead of wealth and fortune great,
Garden and house and loving mate,
I'll rest content in servile state.

I'll from each folly strive to fly,
Each virtue to attain I'll try,
And live as I would wish to die.

Anonymous.-Before 1689

710.-THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER.

DEATH.

Thou wealthy man of large possessions here,
Amounting to some thousand pounds a year,
Extorted by oppression from the poor,
The time is come that thou shalt be no more;
Thy house therefore in order set with speed,
And call to mind how you your life do lead.
Let true repentance be thy chiefest care,
And for another world now, now prepare.
For notwithstanding all your heaps of gold,
Your lands and lofty buildings manifold,
Take notice you must die this very day;
And therefore kiss your bags and come away.

My power reaches, sir; the longest reigns That ever were, I put a period to;

And now I'm come in fine to conquer you.

RICH MAN.

I can't nor won't believe that you, pale Death,

Were sent this day to stop my vital breath, By reason I in perfect health remain,

Free from diseases, sorrow, grief, and pain; No heavy heart, nor fainting fits have I, And do you say that I am drawing nigh The latter minute? sure it cannot be ; Depart, therefore, you are not sent for me!

DEATH.

Yes, yes, I am, for did you never know,
The tender grass and pleasant flowers that

grow

Perhaps one minute, are the next cut down? And so is man, though famed with high

renown.

Have you not heard the doleful passing bell Ring out for those that were alive and well The other day, in health and pleasure too, And had as little thoughts of death as you? For let me tell you, when my warrant's sealed,

The sweetest beauty that the earth doth yield

At my approach shall turn as pale as lead;
'Tis I that lay them on their dying bed.
I kill with dropsy, phthisic, stone, and gout;
But when my raging fevers fly about,
I strike the man, perhaps, but over-night,
Who hardly lives to see the morning light;
I'm sent each hour like to a nimble page,
To infants, hoary heads, and middle age;
Time after time I sweep the world quite
through;

Then it's in vain to think I'll favour you.

DEATH.

I'll search no jails, but the right mark I'll hit;

And though you are unwilling to submit,
Yet die you must, no other friend can do,-
Prepare yourself to go, I'm come for you.
If you had all the world and ten times more,
Yet die you must,-there's millions gone
before;

The greatest kings on earth yield and obey,
And at my feet their crowns and sceptres lay:
If crowned heads and right renowned peers
Die in the prime and blossoms of their years,
Can you suppose to gain a longer space?
No! I will send you to another place.

RICH MAN.

Oh! stay thy hand and be not so severe,
I have a hopeful son and daughter dear,
All that I beg is but to let me live
That I may them in lawful marriage give:
They being young when I am laid in the
grave,

I fear they will be wronged of what they have:

Although of me you will no pity take,
Yet spare me for my little infants' sake.

DEATH.

If such a vain excuse as this might do, It would be long ere mortals would go through

The shades of death; for every man would find Something to say that he might stay behind. Yet, if ten thousand arguments they'd use, The destiny of dying to excuse,

They'll find it is in vain with me to strive,
For why, I part the dearest friends alive;
Poor parents die, and leave their children
small

With nothing to support them here withal,
But the kind hand of gracious Providence,
Who is their father, friend, and sole defence.
Though I have held you long in disrepute,
Yet after all here with a sharp salute
I'll put a period to your days and years,
Causing your eyes to flow with dying tears.

RICH MAN.

[Then with a groan he made this sad complaint]:

My heart is dying, and my spirits faint;
To my close chamber let me be conveyed;
Farewell, false world, for thou hast me be-
trayed.

Would I had never wronged the fatherless,
Nor mourning widows when in sad distress;
Would I had ne'er been guilty of that sin,
Would I had never known what gold had
been:

For by the same my heart was drawn away
To search for gold: but now this very day
I find it is but like a slender reed,

Which fails me most when most I stand in

need;

For, woe is me! the time is come at last,
Now I am on a bed of sorrow cast,
Where in lamenting tears I weeping lie,
Because my sins make me afraid to die :
Oh! Death, be pleased to spare me yet awhile,
That I to God myself may reconcile,
For true repentance some small time allow;
I never feared a future state till now!
My bags of gold and land I'd freely give,
For to obtain the favour here to live,
Until I have a sure foundation laid.

Let me not die before my peace be made!

DEATH.

Thou hast not many minutes here to stay, Lift up your heart to God without delay, Implore his pardon now for what is past, Who knows but He may save your soul at last?

RICH MAN.

I'll water now with tears my dying bed,
Before the Lord my sad complaint I'll spread,
And if He will vouchsafe to pardon me,
To die and leave this world I could be free.
False world! false world, farewell! farewell!

adieu !

I find, I find, there is no trust in you!
For when upon a dying bed we lie,
Your gilded baits are naught but misery.
My youthful son and loving daughter dear,
Take warning by your dying father here;
Let not the world deceive you at this rate,
For fear a sad repentance comes too late.
Sweet babes, I little thought the other day,
I should so suddenly be snatched away
By Death, and leave you weeping here behind;
But life's a most uncertain thing, I find.
When in the grave my head is lain full low,
Pray let not folly prove your overthrow;
Serve ye the Lord, obey his holy will,
That He may have a blessing for you still.
[Having saluted them, he turned aside,
These were the very words before he died]:

A painful life I ready am to leave,
Wherefore, in mercy, Lord, my soul
receive.

Anonymous.-Before 1689.

There did three knights come from the west,
With the high and the lily oh!
And these three knights courted one ladye,
As the rose was so sweetly blown.

The first knight came was all in white,
And asked of her if she'd be his delight.
The next knight came was all in green,
And asked of her if she'd be his queen.
The third knight came was all in red,
And asked of her if she would wed.

"Then have you asked of my father dear?
Likewise of her who did me bear?

And have you asked of my brother John?
And also of my sister Anne ?"

"Yes, I've asked of your father dear,
Likewise of her who did you bear.

And I've asked of your sister Anne,
But I have not asked of your brother John."

Far on the road as they rode along,
There did they meet with her brother John.

She stoopèd low to kiss him sweet,
He to her heart did a dagger meet.

"Ride on, ride on," cried the servingman,
"Methinks your bride she looks wondrous
wan."

714.-THE BLIND BEGGAR OF BEDNALL GREEN.

PART I.

This song 's of a beggar who long lost his sight,

And had a fair daughter, most pleasant and bright,

And many a gallant brave suitor had she,
And none was so comely as pretty Bessee.
And though she was of complexion most fair,
And seeing she was but a beggar his heir,
Of ancient housekeepers despised was she,
Whose sons came as suitors to pretty Bessee.
Wherefore in great sorrow fair Bessee did

say:

"Good father and mother, let me now go

away,

To seek out my fortune, whatever it be." This suit then was granted to pretty Bessee.

This Bessee, that was of a beauty most bright, They clad in grey russet; and late in the night

From father and mother alone parted she,
Who sighed and sobbèd for pretty Bessee.

She went till she came to Stratford-at-Bow, Then she knew not whither or which way to go,

With tears she lamented her sad destiny;
So sad and so heavy was pretty Bessee.

She kept on her journey until it was day,
And went unto Rumford, along the highway;
And at the King's Arms entertainèd was
she,

So fair and well-favoured was pretty Bessee.

She had not been there one month at an end, But master and mistress and all was her friend :

And every brave gallant that once did her

The young men of Rumford in her had their joy,

She showed herself courteous, but never too coy,

And at their commandment still she would be,

So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee.

Four suitors at once unto her did go,

They craved her favour, but still she said no ; "I would not have gentlemen marry with me!"

Yet ever they honoured pretty Bessee.

Now one of them was a gallant young knight,
And he came unto her disguised in the night;
The second, a gentleman of high degree,
Who wooèd and suèd for pretty Bessee.

A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,

Was then the third suitor, and proper withal; Her master's own son the fourth man must be,

Who swore he would die for pretty Bessee.

"If that thou wilt marry with me," quoth the knight,

"I'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; My heart is enthralled in thy fair beauty, Then grant me thy favour, my pretty Bessee." The gentleman said, "Come, marry with me, In silks and in velvet my Bessee shall be ; My heart lies distracted, oh! hear me," quoth he,

"And grant me thy love, my dear pretty Bessee."

"Let me be thy husband," the merchant did

say,

"Thou shalt live in London most gallant and gay;

My ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee,

And I will for ever love pretty Bessee."

Then Bessee she sighed and thus she did say: My father and mother I mean to obey; First get their good will, and be faithful to

me,

And you shall enjoy your dear pretty Bessee."
To every one of them that answer she made,
Therefore unto her they joyfully said:
"This thing to fulfil we all now agree,
But where dwells thy father, my pretty
Bessee?"

'My father," quoth she, “is soon to be seen:
The silly blind beggar of Bednall Green,
That daily sits begging for charity,
He is the kind father of pretty Bessee.

His marks and his token are knowen full well,

He always is led by a dog and a bell;
A poor silly old man, God knoweth is he,
Yet he's the true father of pretty Bessee."