Not a kiffe but poyfon beares;

And most treafon's in his teares.

Idle minutes are his raigne ;

Then the ftraggler makes his gaine,

By prefenting maids with toyes

And would have yee thinke hem joyes ;
'Tis the ambition of the elfe

To have all childish as himselfe.

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If by these yee please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but fhow him.

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Though yee had a will to hide him,

Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him

Since yee heare this falfer's play,

And that he is Venus' run-away.

XVI.

THE KING OF FRANCE's DAUGHTER.

The ftory of this Ballad feems to be taken from an incident in the domeftic hiftory of Charles the Bald, king of France. His daughter Judith was betrothed to Ethelwulph king of England: but before the marriage was confummated, Ethel wulph died, and he returned to France: whence she was carried off by Baldwyn, Forefter of Flanders; who, after many croffes and difficulties, at length obtained the king's confent to their marriage, and was made Earl of Flanders. This happened about A. D. 863.—See Rapin, Henault, and the French Hiftorians.

VOL. III.

M

The

The following copy is given from the Editor's ancient folie 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 have been made in this old fong 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.

N the dayes of old,

IN

When faire France did flourish,

Storyes plaine have told,

The queene a daughter bare,

Whom beautye's queene did nourish:

She was lovelye faire

She was her fathers joye..

A prince of England came,
Whofe deeds did merit fame,

But he was exil'd, and outcast:

Love his foul did fire,

Shee granted his defire,

10

Their hearts in one were linked faft.

15

Which when her father proved,

Sorelye he was moved,

And tormented in his minde.

He fought for to prevent them;

And, to discontent them,

Fortune crofs'd these lovers kinde.

When these princes twaine
Were thus barr'd of pleasure,
Through the kinges difdaine,

Which

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Sounded in her eares:

She heard one complayne
And lament the forest,

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 fweet fake I dye,

To fhow I am a faithfull friend.

Here I lye a bleeding,

While my thoughts are feeding

On the rarest beautye found.

Would God! that I had dyed for thee.

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With her golden haires.

Speake, faire love, quoth fhee,
Speake, faire prince, to mee,

One sweete word of comfort give:

Lift up thy deare eyes,

Listen to my cryes,

Thinke in what fad griefe I live.

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