And any that betake themselves to pillage Hang without stint-and hark-begone-yet stay; VAN DEN BOSCH. That is not to my mind; but what of that? ARTEVELDE. Well, Thou to thy errand then, and I myself Will go from street to street through all the town, I'll meet thee here again. Form, White-Hoods, form; 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? AESWVN. They've dropp'd behind some furlong with the litter. OCCO. 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 unclos'd. 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 Earl, are entertained by the Mayor of Bruges, and the Aldermen. EARL. Sir Mayor, we thank you; 'tis 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, Can but purvey your highness what they have, 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, "Twere to taste further of their courtesies. Soho, sir minstrel! what hast got to sing? VAN HOLST. That matter has been car'd for, please your highness. We knew your highness had a skilful ear, Trump'd up as 'twere extempore for the nonce. He was no tavern cantabank that made it, Fal-lal-the very thing the tune's 'Green Sleeves.' THE MINSTREL SINGS. The little bird sat on the greenwood tree, And the sun was as bright as bright could be; The little bird sang, 'Sir Lion arise, For I hear with my ears and I see with my eyes; From his lair the Lion of Flanders rose, And he shook his mane and toss'd 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 dream'd beside, That the people of Ghent were puff'd 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 growl'd a growl at the gates of Ghent ; The little bird sat on the bush so bare, |