gery.

the earliest times among all the Gothic and Celtic nations for women, even of the highest rank, to exercise the art of furIn the Northern Chronicles we always find the young damfells franching the wounds of their lovers, and the wives thofe of their buftands; from the prince down to the meanest of his followers. See L'Introd. à l'Hift. de Dannemarc, p. 199. Memoires de la Chevalerie. Tom. 1. p. 44.

L. v.

THE FIRST PART.

Ireland, ferr over the sea,

IN There dwelleth a bonnye kinge;

And with him a yong and comlye knighte,
Men call him fyr Caulìne.

The kinge had a ladye to his daughter,
In fashyon the hath no peere ;

And princely wightes that ladye wooed
To be theyr wedded feere.

Syr Cauline loveth her best of all,

But nothing durft he faye;

Ne defcreeve his counfayl to no man,

5

10

But deerlye he lovde this may'.

Till on a daye it so beffell,

Great dill to him was dight;

The maydens love removde his mynd,
To care-bed went the knighte.

15

4

One

One while he fpred his armes him fro,
One while he fpred them nye :

And aye! but I winne that ladyes love,
For dole now I mun dye.

And whan our parish-masse was done,
Our kinge was bowne to dyne:
He fayes, Where is fyr Cauline,

20

Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread,

And ferve him with the wyne

foe red;

Lothe I were him to tine.

Fair Chriftabelle to his chaumber goes,
Her maydens followyng nye:

35

O well, fhe fayth, how doth my lord?
O ficke, thou fayr ladyè.

Nowe ryfe up wightlye, man, for shame,

Never lye foe cowardlee;

For it is told in my fathers halle,

You dye for love of mee.

Fayre ladye, it is for your love

That all this dill I drye:

For if you wold comfort me with a kiffe,

Then were I brought from bale to bliffe,

No lenger wold I lye.

Syr knighte, my father is a kinge,

I am his onlye heire ;

Alas! and well you knowe, fyr knighte,

I never can be youre fere.

O ladye, thou art a kinges daughter,

And I am not thy peere,

40

45

50

But let me doe fome deedes of armes

To be your bacheleere.

Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe,

55

My bacheleere to bee,

(But ever and aye my heart wold rue,

Giff harm fhold happe to thee,)

Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne,

Upon the mores brodìnge;

60

And dare ye, fyr knighte, wake there all nighte

Untill the fayre morninge.

For

For the Eldridge knighte, fo mickle of mighte,

Will examine you beforne :

And never man bare life awaye,
But he did him fcath and scorne.

That knighte he is a foul paynìm,
And large of limb and bone;

And but if heaven may be thy speede
Thy life it is but gone.

Nowe on the Eldridge hilles Ile walke,

For thy fake, faire ladie:

65

70

Unto midnight, that the moone did rife,
He walked up and downe;

Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe

Over the bents foe browne:

Quoth hee, If cryance come till my heart,

My life it is but gone.

85

ke they out theyr two good fwordes,

Aden on full fafte,

e and hawberke, mail and sheelde,
were well-nye braft.

e knight was mickle of might,

te in flower did ftande,

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95

100

105

See Fol. s. pag. 58. V. 102. flode. MS.

But