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How, at last, agreed these lovers?

Shee was fayre, and he was young:

The tongue may tell what th'eye discovers;

Joyes unseene are never sung.

Did shee consent,

Or he relent;

Accepts he night, or grants shee noone;

Left he her a mayd,

Or not; she sayd

Forgoe me now, come to me soone.

VOL. III.

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XIV.

THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.

This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263. folio. It is there intitled, "The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's "Cruelty being a relation of a lamentable and cruel "murther, committed on the body of the lady Isa"bella, the only daughter of a noble Duke, &c. To "the tune of, The Lady's Fall." To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, intitled, "The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation."

THERE was a lord of worthy fame,
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble traine

Of gentrye by his side.

And while he did in chase remaine,
To see both sport and playe;
His ladye went, as she did feigne,
Unto the church to praye.

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.

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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,

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She thus to her did saye.

Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye,

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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.

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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 doe,
Which you do knowe full well.

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O then, cried out the scullion-boye,

As loud as loud might bee;

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O save her life, good master-cook,
And make your pyes of mee!

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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.

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I will not save her life, he sayd,

Nor make my pyes of thee;

Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,

Now sit you downe, his ladye sayd,

O sit you downe to meat:

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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.

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