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How hard is my doom to work !

Much is my woe!
Dame Agnes, who lies in the kirk,

With coif of gold,
With golden borders, strong, untold,
What was she more than me, to be so?


I ken Sir Roger from afar,

Tripping over the lea :
I will ask why the lordè's son

Is more than me.

Sir Roger.
The sultry sun doth hie apace his wain ;

From every beam a seed of life doth fall.
Quickly heap up the hay upon the plain :

Methinks the cocks are 'ginning to grow tali

This is alike our doom : the great, the sniall, Alust wither and be shrunken by death's dart.

See, the sweet floweret hath no sweet at all ; It with the rank weed beareth equal part.

The craven, warrior, and the wise be blent Alike to dry away with those they did lament.


All-a-boon, Sir Priest, all-a-boon!

By your priestship, now say unto me,
Sir Gaufryd the knight, who liveth hard by,

Why should he than me be more great
In honour, knighthood, and estate?

Sir Roger.
Cast round thine eyes upon this hayèd lea;

Attentively look o'er the sun-parched dell ;
An answer to thy burden-song here see ;

This withered floweret will a lesson tell :

It rose, it blew, it flourished and did well, Looking askance upon the neighbour green ;

Yet with the green disdained its glory fell, – Eftsoons it shrank upon the day-burnt plain.

Did not its look, the while it there did stand,

To crop it in the bud move some dread hand ? Such is the way of life : the lord's rich rent'

Moveth the robber him therefore to slay. If thou hast ease, the shadow of content,

Believe the truth, there's none more whole than thee

Thou workest : well, can that a trouble be ?
Sloth more would jade thee than the roughest day.

Couldst thou the secret part of spirits see,
Thou wouldst eftsoons see truth in what I say.

But let me hear thy way of life, and then
Hear thou from me the lives of other men.

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On every Saint's high-day
With the minstrel am I seen,
All a-footing it away

With maidens on the green.
But oh! I wish to be more great
In worship, tenure, and estate.

Sir Roger.
Hast thou not seen a tree upon a hill,

Whose boundless branches reach afar to sight?
When furious tempests do the heaven fill,

It shaketh dire, in dole and much affright;

1 The loverde's ente' (lord's purse).-Chatterton's text and gloss. What while the humble floweret lowly dight Standeth unhurt, unquashed by the storm.

Such picture is of Life : the man of might
Is tempest-chafed, his woe great as his forin :

Thyself, a floweret of a small account,
Wouldst harder feel the wind, as higher thou didst mount.


(From Ella; a Tragical Interlude.)

· First Minstrel.

The budding floweret blushes at the light :

The meads are sprinkled with the yellow hue ; In daisied mantles is the mountain dight;

The slim? young cowslip bendeth with the dew ; The trees enleafèd, into heaven straught, When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din are brought

The evening comes and brings the dew along ;

The ruddy welkin sheeneth to the eyne ;
Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song ;

Young ivy round the doorpost doth entwine ;
I lay me on the grass ; yet, to my will,
Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.

Second Minstrel.

So Adam thought, what time, in Paradise,

All heaven and earth did homage to his mind.
In woman and none else man's pleasaunce lies,

As instruments of joy are kind with kind.
Go, take a wife unto thine arms, and see,
Winter and dusky hills will have a charm for thee.

1 Nesh,' tender.-Chatterton.
? Ynn womman alleyne mannės pleasaunce lyes,
As instruments of joie were made the kynde.'



Third Minstrel.
When Autumn stript and sunburnt doth appear,

With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,
Bringing up Winter to fulfil the year,

Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf ; When all the hills with woody seed are white; When levin-fires and gleams do meet from far the sight ;

When the fair apples, red as even-sky,

Do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground;
When juicy pears and berries of black dye

Do dance in air and call the eyes around ;
Then, be it evening foul or evening fair,
Methinks my joy of heart is shadowed with some care.

Second Minstrel.

Angels are wrought to be of neither kind ;

Angels alone from hot desire are free;
There is a somewhat ever in the mind,

That, without woman, cannot stillèd be :
No saint in cell, but, having blood and cheer',
Doth find the spirit joy in sight of woman fair.

Women are made not for themselves but man, —

Bone of his bone and child of his desire ;
They from an useless member first began,

Y-wrought with much of water, little fire ;
Therefore they seek the fire of love, to heat
The milkiness of kind, and make themselves complete.

Albeit, without women, men were peers

To savage kind, and would but live to slay ;
Yet woman oft the spirit of peace so cheers,-

Dowered with angelic joy, true angels they?
Go, take thee straightway to thy bed a wife ;
Be banned, or highly blest, in proving marriage-life.


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Tere,' health.--Chatterton. : Tochelod yn Angel joie heie (they) Angeles bee.'-Chatterton



Thorowe the halle the bell han sounde ;

Byelecoyle? doe the Grave beseeme;
The ealdermenne doe sytte arounde,

Ande snoffelle“ oppe the cheorte steeme.
Lyche asses wylde ynne desarte waste
Swotelye the morneynge ayre doe taste.

Syke keene theie ate ; the minstrels plaie,

The dynne of angelles doe they keepe:
Heie stylle the guestes ha ne to saie,

Butte nodde yer thankes ande falle aslape.
Thus echone daie bee I to deene,
Gyf Rowleyo, Iscamm?, or Tyb. Gorges be ne seene


[From alla.)

O sing unto my roundelay,

O drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holy-day,
Like a running river be.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

The above piece is given in Chatterton's original spelling, as a sample. ? Fair welcome.-Chatterton. (Bel-acceuil.— Tyrwhitt.) 3 Becomes.-Chatterton.

* Snuff up.-Chatterton. 5 Cheerful.-Chatterton.

• The names of Canynge's favourite poets and friends, as deve 'sped in Chatterton's Rowleian system.

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