Instead of musicke sweet,

Go toll my passing-bell;

And with sweet flowers strow my grave,

That in my chamber smell.

Strip off my bride's arraye,

My cork shoes from my feet;

And, gentle mother, be not coye

To bring my winding-sheet.

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My bride laces of silk

Bestowd, for maidens meet, May fitly serve, when I am dead, To tye my hands and feet.

And thou, my lover true,

My husband and my friend,

Let me intreat thee here to staye,

Until my life doth end.

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With that shee turn'd aside,
As one dispos'd to sleep,

And like a lamb departed life:

Whose friends did sorely weep.

Her true love seeing this,

Did fetch a grievous groane,

As tho' his heart would burst in twaine,

And thus he made his moane.

O darke and dismal daye,

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A daye of grief and care,

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That hath bereft the sun so bright,

Whose beams refresht the air.

Whose bride was brought unto the grave

A maiden and a wife.

A garland fresh and faire
Of lillies there was made,
In sign of her virginitye,

And on her coffin laid.

Six maidens all in white,

Did beare her to the ground:

The bells did ring in solemn sort,

And made a dolefull sound.

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In earth they laid her then,

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For hungry wormes a preye;

So shall the fairest face alive

At length be brought to claye.

XIII.

DULCINA.

Given from two ancient copies, one in black-print, in the Pepys Collection, the other in the Editor's folio MS. Each of these contained a stanza not found in the other. What seemed the best readings were selected from both.

This song is quoted as very popular in Walton's Complete Angler, chap. 2. It is more ancient than the ballad of ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW printed below, which yet is supposed to have been written by Ben Jonson.

As at noone Dulcina rested

In her sweete and shady bower,
Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lapp to sleepe an hour.
But from her looke

A wounde he tooke

Soe deepe, that for a further boone
The nymph he prayes.

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Wherto shee sayes,

Forgoe me now, come to me soone.

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But in vayne shee did conjure him

To depart her presence soe ;

Having a thousand tongues to allure him,
And but one to bid him goe:

Where lipps invite,
And eyes delight,

And cheekes, as fresh as rose in june,
Persuade delay;

What boots, she say,

Forgoe me now, come to me soone.

He demands what time for pleasure

Can there be more fit than now:
She sayes, night gives love that leysure,
Which the day can not allow.

He sayes, the sight

Improves delight.

Which she denies: Nights mirkie noone

In Venus' playes

Makes bold, shee sayes;

Forgoe me now, come to mee soone.

But what promise or profession

From his hands could purchase scope?
Who would sell the sweet possession
Of suche beautye for a hope?
Or for the sight

Of lingering night

Forgoe the present joyes of noone?

Though ne'er soe faire

Her speeches were,

Forgoe me now, come to me soone.

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