This lord he had a daughter deare,
Whose beauty shone so bright,
She was belov'd, both far and neare,
Of many a lord and knight.

Fair Isabella was she call'd,
A creature faire was shee;
She was her fathers only joye;
As you shall after see.

Therefore her cruel step-mothèr
Did envye her so much,

That daye by daye she sought her life,
Her malice it was such.

She bargain'd with the master-cook,
To take her life awaye:

And taking of her daughters book,
She thus to her did saye.

'Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, Go hasten presentlie;

And tell unto the master-cook

These wordes that I tell thee.

And bid him dresse to dinner streight
That faire and milk-white doe,
That in the parke doth shine so bright,
There's none so faire to showe.'

This ladye fearing of no harme,
Obey'd her mothers will;

And presentlye she hasted home,
Her pleasure to fulfill

She streight into the kitchen went,
Her message for to tell;

And there she spied the master-cook,
Who did with malice swell.

'Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,

Do that which I thee tell:

You needes must dresse the milk-white dre,
Which you do knowe full well.'

Then streight his cruell bloodye hands,

He on the ladye layd;

Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he sayd:

Thou art the doe, that I must dresse;

"O then,' cried out the scullion-boye, As loud as loud might bee;

'O save her life, good master-cook,

And make your pyes of mee!

For pityes sake do not destroye
My ladye with your knife;
You know shee is her father's joye,
For Christes sake save her life.'

'I will not save her life,' he sayd,
'Nor make my pyes of thee;
Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,
Thy butcher I will bee.'

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Now when this lord he did come home

For to sit downe and eat;

He called for his daughter deare,

To come and carve his meat.

'Now sit you downe,' his ladye said, 'O sit you downe to meat;

Into some nunnery she is

gone;

Your daughter deare forget.'

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Then solemnlye he made a vowe,

Before the companìe:

That he would neither eat nor drinke,

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Until he did her see.

O then bespake the scullion-boye,
With a loude voice so hye;

'If now you will your daughter see,
My lord, cut up that pye:

Wherein her fleshe is minced small,
And parched with the fire;
All caused by her step-mother,
Who did her death desire.

And cursed bee the master-cook,

O cursed may he bee!

I proffered him my own hearts blood,

From death to set her free.'

Then all in blacke this lord did mourne;

And for his daughters sake,

He judged her cruel step-mothèr
To be burnt at a stake.

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Likewise he judg'd the master-cook

In boiling lead to stand;
And made the simple scullion-boye
The heire of all his land.

XV.

A HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID.

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This song is a kind of translation of a pretty poem of Tasso's, called Amore fuggitivo, generally printed with his Aminta, and originally imitated from the first Idyllium of Moschus.

It is extracted from Ben Jonson's Masque at the marriage of lord viscount Hadington, on Shrove-Tuesday 1608. One stanza full of dry mythology is here omitted, as it had been dropt in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called 'Le Prince d'amour. Lond. 1660,' 8vo.

BEAUTIES, have yee seen a toy,
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blinde;
Cruel now; and then as kinde?

If he be amongst yee, say;
He is Venus' runaway.

Shee, that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kisse,

How and where herselfe would wish:
But who brings him to his mother

Shall have that kisse, and another.

Markes he hath about him plentie;
You may know him among twentie:
All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire:

Which, being shot, like lightning, in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

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Wings he hath, which though yee clip,

He will leape from lip to lip,

Over liver, lights, and heart;
Yet not stay in any part.

And, if chance his arrow misses,

He will shoote himselfe in kisses.

He doth beare a golden bow,
And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrowes, which outbrave

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Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharpe than other,

With that first he strikes his mother.

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Still the fairest are his fuell,
When his daies are to be cruell;

Lovers hearts are all his food,

And his baths their warmest bloud:

Nought but wounds his hand doth season,
And he hates none like to Reason.

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Trust him not: his words, though sweet,

Seldome with his heart doe meet:
All his practice is deceit;

Everie gift is but a bait;

Not a kisse but poyson beares;

And most treason's in his teares.

Idle minutes are his raigne;

Then the straggler makes his gaine,

By presenting maids with toyes

And would have yee thinke 'em joyes;

'Tis the ambition of the elfe

To have all childish as himselfe.

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