"O, darke and dismal daye!
A daye of grief and care,

That hath bereft the sun so bright,
Whose beams refresht the air.

Now, woe unto the world,

And all that therein dwell,

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O! that I were with thee in heaven,

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For here I live in hell."

And now this lover lives

A discontented life,

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.

In earth they laid her then,

For hungry wormes a preye;

So shall the fairest face alive
At length be brought to claye.

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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 "Compleat

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
Wherto shee sayes,

"Forgoe me now, come to me soone.'

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 says, "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 such beautye for a hope?

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Or for the sight

Of lingering night

Foregoe the present joyes of noone ?
Though ne'er soe faire
Her speeches were,

"Forgoe me now, come to me soone.'

How, at last, agreed these lovers ?

Shee was fayre, and he was young:

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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."

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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 Isabella, 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;

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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.

Fair Isabella was she call'd,

A creature faire was shee; She was her fathers only joye; As you shall after see.

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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.

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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 ;

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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.

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"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."

Then streight his cruell bloodye hands,

He on the ladye layd ;

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

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"Thou art the doe, that I must dresse;

See here, behold my knife;

For it is pointed presently

To ridd thee of thy life."

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."

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 sayd,

"O sit you downe to meat:

Into some nunnery she is gone;
Your daughter deare forget."

Then solemnlye he made a vowe,
Before the companie :

That he would neither eat nor drinke,
Until he did her see.

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