LISTNETH, gode people, everiche one,
For in the londe of Babylone,
Far eastward I wot it lyeth,

And is the first londe the sonne espieth,
Ther, as he cometh fro out the sé;
In this ilk londe, as thinketh me,
Right as holie legendes tell,
Snottreth from a roke a well,

And falleth into ane bath of ston,
Wher chast Susanne in times long gon,
Was wont to wash her bodie and lim-
Mickle vertue hath that streme,
As ye shall se er that ye pas,
Ensample by this little glas-

Through nightés cold and dayés hote,
Hiderward I have it brought;

Hath a wife made slip or slide,

Or a maiden stepp'd aside;

Putteth this water under her nese,
Wold she nold she, she shall snese.

MOTTOES.

CHAPTER V.

-IN the wild storm,

The seaman hews his mast down, and the merchant
Heaves to the billows wares he once deem'd precious :
So prince and peer, 'mid popular contentions,
Cast off their favourites.

CHAPTER VI.

THOU hast each secret of the household, Francis.
I dare be sworn thou hast been in the buttery
Steeping thy curious humour in fat ale,
And in the butler's tattle-ay, or chatting
With the glib waiting-woman o'er her comfits-
These bear the key to each domestic mystery.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE sacred tapers' lights are gone,
Grey moss has clad the altar stone,
The holy image is o'erthrown,

The bell has ceased to toll.

The long ribb'd aisles are burst and shrunk,
The holy shrines to ruin sunk,

Departed is the pious monk,

God's blessing on his soul!

CHAPTER XVI.

YOUTH! thou wear'st to manhood now,

Darker lip and darker brow,

Statelier step, more pensive mien,

In thy face and gait are seen :

Thou must now brook midnight watches,
Take thy food and sport by snatches!

For the gambol and the jest,

Thou wert wont to love the best,

Graver follies must thou follow,

But as senseless, false, and hollow.

CHAPTER XIX.

It is and is not 'tis the thing I sought for,

Haye kneel'd for, pray'd for, risk'd my fame and life for,

And yet it is not-no more than the shadow Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polish'd mirror, Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance Which it presents in form and lineament.

GOLDTHRED'S SONG.

OF all the birds on bush or tree,
Commend me to the owl,
Since he may best ensample be
To those the cup that trowl.

For when the sun hath left the west,

He chooses the tree that he loves the best,

And he whoops out his song, and he laughs at his

jest,

Then, though hours be late, and weather foul, We'll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl.

The lark is but a bumpkin fowl,
He sleeps in his nest till morn ;
But my blessing upon the jolly owl,
That all night blows his horn.