Classic Poem

If any such thing be, tell out thy rede,
And ye shall been all whole I you beheet;
Else mine art is naught, withouten drede.
O Lord, she thought, health is a thing full sweet,
Therewith desire I sovereignly to meet:
Since I it by confession may recover.
A fool am I but I my guilt discover.

How falsely to the son of th' Emperor,
Jonathas, had she done, before them all
As ye han heard above, all that error
By knew she. O Fellicula thee call
Well may I so, for of the bitter gall
Thou takest the beginning of thy name,
Thou root of malice and mirror of shame.

Then said Jonathas: Where are those three
Jewels, that thee fro the clerk withdrew?
Sir, in a coffer at my bed's feet ye
Shall find them; open it, and so pray I you.
He thought not to make it queint and tow,
And say nay, and strain courtesy,
But with right good will thither he 'gan hie.

The coffer he opened, and them there fond.
Who was a glad man but Jonathas? who
The ring upon a finger of his hond
He put, and the brooch on his breast also,
The cloth eke under his arm held he tho;
And to her him dresseth to done his cure,
Cure mortal, way to her sepulture.

He thought rue she should, and fore-think
That she her had unto him misbore;
And of that water her he gave to drink,
Which that his flesh from his bones before
Had twined, wherethrough he was almost lore,
Nad he relieved been, as ye above
Han heard, and this he did eke for her love.

Of the fruit of the tree he gave her eat,
Which that him made into the leper stert,
And as blive in her womb 'gan they fret
And gnaw so, that change 'gan her hert
Now heark'neth how it her made smert:
Her womb opened, and out fell each entrail
That in her was, thus it is said, sans fail.

Thus wretchedly (lo) this guile-man died,
And Jonathas with jewels three
No longer there thought to abide,
But home to the empress his mother hasteth he,
Whereas in joy and in prosperitee
His life led he to his dying day;
And so God us grant that we do may.

Willie.

By my hook this is a tale
Would befit our Whitsun-Ale:
Better cannot be, I wist,
Descant on it he that list.
And full gladly give I wold
The best cosset in my fold
And a mazor for a fee,
If this song thou'lt teachen me
'Tis so quaint and fine a lay,
That upon our revel day
If I sung it, I might chance
(For my pains) be took to dance
With our Lady of the May.

Roget.

Roget will not say thee nay,
If thou deem'st it worth thy pains.
'Tis a song not many swains
Singen can, and though it be
Not so deck'd with nicety
Of sweet words full neatly choosed
As are now by shepherds used:
Yet if well you sound the sense,
And the moral's excellence,
You shall find it quit the while,
And excuse the homely style.
Well I wot the man that first
Sung this lay did quench his thirst
Deeply as did ever one
In the Muses' Helicon.
Many times he hath been seen
With the fairies on the green,
And to them his pipe did sound,
Whilst they danced in a round.
Mickle solace would they make him,
And at midnight often wake him,
And convey him from his room
To a field of yellow broom;
Or into the meadows where
Mints perfume the gentle air,
And where Flora spends her treasure:
There they would begin their measure.
If it chanc'd night's sable shrouds
Muffled Cynthia up in clouds,
Safely home they then would see him,
And from brakes and quagmires free him,
There are few such swains as he
Nowadays for harmony.

Willie.

What was he thou praisest thus?

Roget.

Scholar unto Tityrus:
Tityrus, the bravest swain
Ever lived on the plain,
Taught him how to feed his lambs,
How to cure them, and their dams:
How to pitch the fold, and then
How he should remove agen:

Taught him when the corn was ripe,
How to make an oaten pipe,
How to join them, how to cut them,
When to open, when to shut them,
And with all the skill he had
Did instruct this willing lad.

Willie.

Happy surely was that swain!
And he was not taught in vain:
Many a one that prouder is,
Han not such a song as this,
And have garlands for their meed,
That but jar as Skelton's reed.

Roget.

'Tis too true: but see the sun
Hath his journey fully run;
And his horses, all in sweat,
In the ocean cool their heat;
Sever we our sheep and fold them,
'Twill be night ere we have told them.