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ACT III.

SCENE I.

NIGHT. A WOOD IN THE VICINITY OF BRUGES.

THE LORD OF OCCO AND FOLLOWERS.

OCCO.

No more than half a league to Bruges? then halt,
And let the men at arms be drawn together
Where the ground's open. Berckel, ride thou on
And hail the warders on the walls; make known
That for the love which we have shown the Earl
We're driven forth of Ghent, and humbly crave
His hospitality.

(TO VAN AESWYN, who enters.)

Where is the lady?

AESWYN.

They've dropped behind some furlong with the litter.

оссо.

Keep thou beside her, lest she might prevail.
To make the varlets speak. Let none approach
After we pass the gates but men of mine,
Nor ever let the litter be unclosed.

Now, if we're all in order, march we on.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A BANQUETTING-HALL IN THE STADT-HOUSE AT
BRUGES.

Tables are spread, and the EARL OF FLANDERS, the HASE OF FLANDERS, with several Lords, Knights, and followers of the Eurl, are entertained by the Mayor of Bruges, and the Aldermen.

EARL.

Sir Mayor, we thank you; 't is a royal feast.

MAYOR.

My gracious lord, the supper is but poor;
Very exceeding poor the supper is;

And yet the most we can; your humble hosts,
Being but meagre citizens God wot,

Can but purvey your highness what they have,
A very sorry supper.

ALDERMAN.

True, indeed.

Yet if your highness please to cast it up,

A thousand florins

MAYOR.

Hold thy peace, Van Holst;

The minstrels twang their cat-gut.

EARL (aside to the HASE).

In good time.

If aught could make me cast my supper up,

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"T were to taste further of their courtesies.

Soho, Sir minstrel! what hast got to sing?

VAN HOLST.

That matter has been cared for, please your highness.
We knew your highness had a skilful ear,

And 't was not every poesy would please you.
This is a ditty craftily conceited,

Trumped up as 't were extempore for the nonce.

He was no tavern cantabank that made it,

But a squire minstrel of your highness' court.

So-sing, Sir Minstrel

- there

you

have it - ah!

Fal-lal- the very thing the tune's 'Green Sleeves.'

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THE MINSTREL SINGS.

The little bird sat on the greenwood tree,
And the sun was as bright as bright could be ;
The leaf was broad, the shade was deep,
The Lion of Flanders lay fast asleep.

The little bird sang, Sir Lion arise,

For I hear with my ears and I see with my eyes;
And I know what I know, and I tell thee this,
That the men of Ghent have done something amiss.'

From his lair the Lion of Flanders rose,
And he shook his mane and tossed up his nose;
Ere a leaf be fallen, or summer be spent,'
Quoth he, if God spare me, I'll go to Ghent.

For a little bird sang, and I dreamed beside,
That the people of Ghent were puffed up with pride,
And I had been far over hill and dale,

And was fast asleep, and they trod on my tail.'

Ere a leaf was fallen the Lion he went,

And growled a growl at the gates of Ghent;

But they bended low when they saw him awake,
And said that they trod on his tail by mistake.

The little bird sat on the bush so bare,
And the leaf fell brown on the Lion's lair;
The little bird picked a berry so red,
And dropt it down on the Lion's head.

Sir Lion awake, and put out your claws,
And lift your chin from your tawny paws;
My ears are smaller than yours, but more
I hear than you, and worse than before.'

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The Lion stirred and awoke with a snort,
And swelled with rage till his breath came short;
Ere the brown leaf meet with the flake of snow
On the roundabout stair, to Ghent I'll go.

For a little bird sang, and I dreamed as well,
That the people of Ghent were as false as hell;
Coming by stealth when nought I feared,
They trod on my corns and pulled my beard.'

Ere a snow-flake fell the Lion he went,

And roared a roar at the gates of Ghent;

The gates they shook, though they were fast barred, And the warders heard it at Oudenarde.

At the first roar ten thousand men
Fell sick to death—he roared again,
And the blood of twenty thousand flowed
On the bridge of Roone, as broad as the road.

Wo worth thee, Ghent! if having heard
The first and second, thou bidest the third.
Flat stones and awry, grass, potsherd, and shard,
Thy place shall be like an old churchyard.

EARL.

A singular good song, and daintily accompanied with the music. Give him three florins, and a denier for the lad withal.

VAN HOLST.

Your highness is too bountiful. He made it not himself. T was your highness's serjeant minstrel that made it. The making and mending of it together was seven days and nights, bating twelve hours for sleeping, and four hours for eating, and five minutes for saying his prayers. Drinking never stopped him, for still the more he drank, the more he made of it. And he ranted and sang an' it like your highness, that it would have pleased you to hear him; for being that the song was made in honor of your highness, he said he could sing it a thousand times over, and think better of it every time.

EARL.

It is good poesy-marry and good prophecy too. Hark ye, master Mayor; I have some whit repented me that I was wrought upon by those old Knights of Ghent to proffer terms of such easy acquittance.

MAYOR.

When your highness is graciously pleased to give away your advantages, it is not for such as I to say you do wrong; but every man in Bruges, that is well affected to your highness, said that three hundred heads was too little.

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