And any that betake themselves to pillage

Hang without stint-and hark-begone-yet stay;
Shut the west gate, postern, and wicket too,
And catch my Lord of Occo where you can.
Stay-on thy life let no man's house be plundered.

VAN DEN BOSCH.

That is not to my mind; but what of that?
Thou'st play'd the game right boldly, and for me,
My oath of homage binds me to thee.

ARTEVELDE.

Well,

Thou to thy errand then, and I myself

Will go from street to street through all the town,
To reassure the citizens; that done

I'll meet thee here again. Form, White-Hoods, form;
Range ten abreast; I'm coming down amongst you.
You Floris, Leefdale, Spanghen, mount ye here,
And bear me down these bodies. Now, set forth.
(The White-Hoods, by whose shouts of 'Artevelde
for Ghent' the latter part of the Scene has
been frequently interrupted, now join in a
cry of triumph, and carry him off on their
shoulders.)

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

Trump'd up as 'twere 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.'

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 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 ;
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,
Aud the leaf fell brown on the lion's lair
The little bird pick'd a berry so red,
And dropt it down on the lion's head.