THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.
Now ponder well, you parents deare,
These wordes which I shall write;
A doleful story you shall heare,
In time brought forth to light.
A gentleman of good account
In Norfolke dwelt of late,
Who did in honor far surmount
Most men of his estate.
Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,
No helpe his life could save;
His wife by him as sicke did lye,
And both possest one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kinde;
In love they lived, in love they dyed,
And left two babes behinde :
The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three yeares olde;
The other a girl more young than he
And framed in beautyes molde.
The father left his little son,
As plainlye doth appeare,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred poundes a year.
And to his little daughter Jane
Five hundred poundes in gold,
To be paid downe on marriage day,
Which might not be controlled :
But if the children chanced to dye,
Ere they to age should come,
Their uncle should possesse their wealth;
For so the wille did run.
"Now, brother," said the dying man,
"Look to my children deare;
Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friendes else have they here:
To God and you I recommend
My children deare this daye;
But little while be sure we have
Within this world to staye.
"You must be father and mother both,
And uncle all in one;
God knowes what will become of them,
When I am dead and gone."
With that bespake their mother deare,
"O brother kinde," quoth shee,
"You are the man must bring our babes
To wealth or miserie:
"And if you keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward;
But if you otherwise should deal,
God will your deedes regard."
With lippes as cold as any stone,
They kist their children small:
"God bless you both, my children deare;"
With that the teares did fall.
These speeches then their brother spake
To this sicke couple there:
"The keeping of your little ones,
Sweet sister, do not feare.
God never prosper me nor mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children deare,
When you are layd in grave."
The parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,
And bringes them straite unto his house,
Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a daye,
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both awaye.
He bargained with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,
That they should take these children young,
And slaye them in a wood.
He told his wife an artful tale:
He would the children send
To be brought up in faire London,
With one that was his friend.
Away then went those pretty babes,
Rejoycing at that tide,
Rejoycing with a merry mind,
They should on cock horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on the waye,
To those that should their butchers be,
And worke their lives decaye:
So that the pretty speeche they had,
Made Murder's heart relent:
And they that undertooke the deed,
Full sore did now repent.
Yet one of them more hard of heart
Did vowe to do his charge,
Because the wretch, that hired him,
Had paid him very large.
The other won't agree thereto,
So here they fall to strife;
With one another they did fight,
About the children's life:
And he that was of mildest mood,
Did slaye the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood;
The babes did quake for feare!
He took the children by the hand,
Teares standing in their eye,
And bade them straitwaye follow him,
And look they did not crye;
And two long miles he ledd them on,
While they for food complaine:
"Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread, When I come back againe."
These pretty babes, with hand in hand,
Went wandering up and downe;
But nevermore could see the man
Approaching from the town:
Their prettye lippes with blackberries,
Were all besmeared and dyed,
And when they sawe the darksome night,
They sat them downe and cryed.
Thus wandered these poor innocents,
Till deathe did end their grief,
In one anothers armes they dyed,
As wanting due relief:
No burial this pretty pair
Of any man receives,
Till Robin red breast piously
Did cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrathe of God
Upon their uncle fell;
Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house,
His conscience felt an hell;
His barnes were fired, his goodes consumed,
His lands were barren made,
His cattle dyed within the field,
And nothing with him stayd.
And in a voyage to Portugal
Two of his sonnes did dye;
And to conclude, himselfe was brought
To want and miserye :
He pawned and mortgaged all his land
Ere seven yeares came about,
And now at length this wicked act
Did by this meanes come out:
The fellowe, that did take in hand
These children for to kill,
Was for a robbery judged to dye,
Such was God's blessed will;
Who did confess the very truth,
As here hath been displayed:
Their uncle having dyed in gaol,
Where he for debt was layd.
You that executors be made,
And overseers eke
Of children that be fatherless,
And infants mild and meek;
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God with such like miserye
Your wicked minds requite.
JEALOUS FOOLS AND ENVIOUS FOOLS.
(From "The Ship of Fools," nominally a translation from Sebastian Brant's "Narrenschiff," but really an independent poem, cast in a separate mold, of material chiefly Barclay's own.)
[SEBASTIAN BRANT of Strasburg-born 1458, died 1521—was a lawyer, and town clerk of Strasburg. His "Narrenschiff" was published in 1494, and was enormously popular all through Europe and among all classes.]
[ALEXANDER BARCLAY was probably born in Scotland, about 1475; died in England in 1552. He was a monk, priest in the College of Ottery St. Mary, and later a London rector.]
OF HIM THAT IS JEALOUS OVER HIS WIFE, AND WATCHETH HER
WAYS WITHOUT CAUSE OR EVIDENT TOKEN OF HER MISLIKING.
HE THAT his wife will counterwait and watch,
And feareth of her living by his jealous intent,
Is as great fool as is that witless wretch
That would keep flies under the sun fervent,
Or in the sea cast water, thinking it to augment;
For though he her watch, locking with lockès twain,
But [except] if she keep herself, his keeping is but vain.
Orestes was never so blind and mad as is he
Which for his wifè taketh thought and charge,
Watching her ways, though that she guiltless be.
This fool still feareth, if she be out at large,
Lest that some other his harness should overcharge;
But for all his fear and careful jealousy,
If she be naught, there is no remedy.
Thou fool, I prove thy watching helpeth naught,
Thy labor lost is, thou takest this care in vain ;
In vain thou takest this jealousy and thought,
In vain thou slayest thyself with care and pain,
And of one doubt, thou fool, thou makest twain,
And never shalt find ease nor merry living,
(While thou thus livest,) but hatered and chiding.
For lock her fast and all her lookès mark,
Note all her steppes and twinkling of her eye,
Ordain thy watchers and doggès for to bark,
Bar fast thy doors, and yet it will not be;
Close her in a tower with wallès strong and high,
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