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Where manye woefull captives he did find,

Which had beene tyred with extremityes ; Whom he in freindly manner did unbind,

And reasoned with them of their miseryes: 160 Eche told a tale with teares, and sighes, and cryes, All weeping to him with complaining eyes.


There tender ladyes in darke dungeons lay,

That were surprised in the desart wood, And had noe other dyett everye day,

But flesh of humane creatures for their food : Some with their lovers bodyes had beene fed, And in their wombes their husbands buryed.

Now he bethinkes him of his being there,

Toenlarge the wronged brethren from their woes: 170 And, as he searcheth, doth great clamours heare,

By which sad sound's direction on he goes, Untill he findes a darksome obscure gate, Arm'd strongly ouer all with iron plate.

That he unlockes, and enters, where appeares 175

The strangest object that he ever saw; Men that with famishment of many yeares,

Were like deathes picture, which the painters draw; Divers of them were hanged by eche thombe ; Others head-downward: by the middle some. 190

With diligence he takes them from the walle,

With lybertye their thraldome to acquaint:


Then the perplexed knight their father calls,

And sayes, Receive thy sonnes though poore and faint: I promisd you their lives, accept of that; But did not warrant you they shold be fat.

The castle I doe give thee, heere's the keyes,

Where tyranye for many yeeres did dwell: Procure the gentle tender ladyes ease,

For pittyes sake, use wronged women well : 190 Men easilye revenge the wrongs men do ; But poore weake women have not strength thereto.

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The good old man, even overjoyed with this,

Fell on the ground, and wold have kist Guys feete: Father, quoth he, refraine soe base a kiss, 195 For age

to honor youth I hold unmeete : Ambitious pryde hath hurt mee all it can, I goe to mortifie a sinfull man.

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*** The foregoing poem on GUY AND AMARANT has been discovered to be a fragment of “ The famous his“ torie of Guy earle of Warwicke, by SAMUEL Row

LANDS, London, printed by J. Bell, 1649,” 4to. in xii cantos, beginning thus:

“ When dreadful Mars in armour every day." Whether the edition in 1649 was the first, is not known, but the author SAM. ROWLANDS was one of the minor poets who lived in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and James I. and perhaps later. His other poems are chiefly of the religious kind, which makes it probable that the history of Guy was one of his earliest performances.


5.—There are extant of his (1.) “ The betraying " of Christ, Judas in dispaire, the seven words of our “ Saviour on the crosse, with other poems on the pas“sion, &c. 1598, 4to. [Ames Typ. p. 428.]—(2.) A “ Theatre of delightful Recreation. Lond. printed for “ A. Johnson, 1605,” 4to. (Penes editor.) This is a book of poems on subjects chiefly taken from the Old Testament. (3.) Memory of Christ's miracles, in verse. Lond. 1618, 4to.”


“ Heaven's glory, "earth’s vanity, and hell's horror." Lond. 1638, Svo. [These two in Bod. Cat.]

In the present edition the foregoing poem has been much improved from the printed copy.








I have not been able to meet with a more ancient copy of this humorous old song, than that printed in the Tea-Table Miscellany, &c. which seems to have admitted some corruptions.

Late in an evening forth I went

A little before the sun gade down,
And there I chanc't, by accident, i

To light on a battle new begun :
A man and his wife wer fawn in a strife,

I canna weel tell ye how it began;

she wail'd her wretched life,
Cryeng, Evir alake, mine auld goodman!




Thy auld goodman, that thou tells of,

The country kens where he was born,
Was but a silly poor vagabond,

And ilka ane leugh him to scorn :
For he did spend and make an end

Of gear • his fathers nevir' wan;
He gart the poor stand frae the door ;

Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.



My heart, alake! is liken to break,

Whan I think on my winsome John, His blinkan ee, and gait sae free,

Was naithing like thee, thou dosend drone; 20 Wi' his rosie face, and flaxen hair,

And skin as white as ony swan,
He was large and tall, and comely withall;

Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.




Why dost thou plein ? I thee maintein

For meal and mawt thou disna want :
But thy wild bees I canna please,
Now whan our gear gins to grow

scant : Of houshold stuff thou hast enough ;

Thou wants for neither pot nor pan; Of sicklike ware he left thee bare;

Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.





Yes I may tell, and fret my sell,

To think on those blyth days I had, Whan I and he together ley

In armes into a well-made bed: But now I sigh and may be sad,

Thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan, Thou falds thy feet, and fa's asleep;

Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.


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