'All the evil I think to thee, most gracious knight, G.o.d grant unto myself the same may fully light:

'Blessed be the time and season That you came on Spanish ground; If you may our foes be termed, Gentle foes we have you found.

With our city you have won our hearts each one; Then to your country bear away that is your own.'

'Rest you still, most gallant lady, Rest you still, and weep no more; Of fair lovers there are plenty; Spain doth yield a wondrous store.'

'Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, But English men throughout the world are counted kind.

'Leave me not unto a Spaniard; You alone enjoy my heart; I am lovely, young, and tender, And so love is my desert.

Still to serve thee day and night my mind is press'd; The wife of every English man is counted blest.'

'It would be a shame, fair lady, For to bear a woman hence; English soldiers never carry Any such without offence.'

'I will quickly change myself if it be so, And like a page I'll follow thee where'er thou go.'

'I have neither gold nor silver To maintain thee in this case, And to travel, 'tis great charges, As you know, in every place.'

'My chains and jewels everyone shall be thine own, And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.'

'On the seas are many dangers; Many storms do there arise, Which will be to ladies dreadful, And force tears from watery eyes.'

'Well in truth I shall endure extremity, For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.'

'Courteous lady, be contented; Here comes all that breeds the strife; I in England have already A sweet woman to my wife: I will not falsify my vow for gold or gain, Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.'

'Oh how happy is that woman, That enjoys so true a friend!

Many days of joy G.o.d send you!

Of my suit I'll make an end: On my knees I pardon crave for this offence, Which did from love and true affection first commence.

'Commend me to thy loving lady; Bear to her this chain of gold, And these bracelets for a token; Grieving that I was so bold.

All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee, For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.'

'I will spend my days in prayer, Love and all her laws defy, In a nunnery will I shroud me, Far from any company: But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.

'Thus farewell, most gentle captain, And farewell my heart's content!

Count not Spanish ladies wayward, Though to thee my love was bent: Joy and true prosperity go still with thee!'

'The like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady.'

_Old Ballad_

CXVII

_LITTLE WHITE LILY_

Little white Lily Sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting Till the sun shone.

Little white Lily Sunshine has fed; Little white Lily Is lifting her head.

Little white Lily Said, 'It is good; Little white Lily's Clothing and food.'

Little white Lily, Drest like a bride!

Shining with whiteness, And crown'd beside!

Little white Lily Droopeth with pain, Waiting and waiting For the wet rain.

Little white Lily Holdeth her cup; Rain is fast falling And filling it up.

Little white Lily Said, 'Good again, When I am thirsty To have nice rain; Now I am stronger, Now I am cool; Heat cannot burn me, My veins are so full.'

Little white Lily Smells very sweet: On her head sunshine, Rain at her feet.

'Thanks to the sunshine, Thanks to the rain!

Little white Lily Is happy again!

_G. MacDonald_

CXVIII

_MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA_

O sing unto my roundelay; O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below.

My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O, he lies by the willow-tree!

My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the brier'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the night-mares as they go.

My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

See, the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.

My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

_T. Chatterton_

CXIX

_AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG_

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a G.o.dly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes.