O then bespake the scullion-boye,
With a loud 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."

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Then all in blacke this lord did mourne;

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And for his daughters sake,

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

Likewise he judg'd the master-cook
In boiling lead to stand;

And made the simple scullion-boye
The heire of all his land.

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XV.

A HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID.

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.

Almost naked, wanton, blinde;
Cruel now; and then as kinde?

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

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.

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 shoot himselfe in kisses.

He doth beare a golden bow,
And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrowes, which outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharpe than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

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 hem joyes;
'Tis the ambition of the elfe

To have all childish as himselfe.

If by these yee please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though yee had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him
Since yee heare this falser's play,
And that he is Venus' run-away.

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XVI.

THE KING OF FRANCE'S DAUGHTER.

THE story of this Ballad seems to be taken from an incident in the domestic history of Charles the Bald, king of France. His daughter Judith was betrothed to Ethelwulph king of England: but before the marriage was consummated, Ethelwulph died, and she returned to France: whence she was carried off by Baldwyn, Forester of Flanders; who, after many crosses and difficulties, at length obtained the king's consent to their marriage, and was made Earl of Flanders. This happened about A.D. 863.-See Rapin, Henault, and the French Historians.

The following copy is given from the Editor's ancient folio MS. collated with another in black-letter in the Pepys Collection, intitled, "An excellent Ballad of a prince of England's courtship to the king of France's daughter, &c. To the tune of Crimson Velvet."

Many breaches having been made in this old song by the

hand of time, principally (as might be expected) in the quick returns of the rhime; an attempt is here made to repair them.

IN the dayes of old,

When faire France did flourish,
Storyes plaine have told,

Lovers felt annoye.

The queene a daughter bare,

Whom beautye's queene did nourish :

She was lovelye faire

She was her fathers joye.

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A prince of England came,

Whose deeds did merit fame,

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But he was exil'd, and outcast:

Love his soul did fire,

Shee granted his desire,

Their hearts in one were linked fast.

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Which when her father proved,

Sorelye he was moved,

And tormented in his minde.

He sought for to prevent them;
And, to discontent them,

Fortune cross'd these lovers kinde.

When these princes twaine

Were thus barr'd of pleasure,
Through the kinges disdaine,
Which their joyes withstoode :
The lady soone prepar'd

Her jewells and her treasure;
Having no regard

For state and royall bloode;

In homelye poore array

She went from court away,

To meet her joye and hearts delight;

Who in a forrest great

Had taken up his seat,

To wayt her coming in the night.

But, lo! what sudden danger
To this princely stranger

Chanced, as he sate alone!
By outlawes he was robbed,
And with ponyards stabbed,
Uttering many a dying grone.
The princesse, arm'd by love,
And by chaste desire,
All the night did rove
Without dread at all:
Still unknowne she past
In her strange attire ;
Coming at the last

Within echoes call,

"You faire woods," quoth shee, "Honoured may you bee,

Harbouring my hearts delight;

Which encompass here

My joye and only deare,

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My trustye friend, and comelye knight.

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Sweete, I come unto thee,

Sweete, I come to woo thee;

That thou mayst not angry bee

For my long delaying;

For thy curteous staying

Soone amendes Ile make to thee."

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Many a grievous grone

Sounded in her eares :

She heard one complayne
And lament the sorest,

Seeming all in payne,

Shedding deadly teares.

"Farewell, my deare," quoth hee,
"Whom I must never see;

For why my life is att an end,
Through villaines crueltye :
For thy sweet sake I dye,

To show I am a faithfull friend.
Here I lye a bleeding,

While my thoughts are feeding

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