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She streight into the kitchen went,

Her message for to tell ;
And there she spied the master-cook,

Who did with malice swell.

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Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,

Do that which I thee tell:
You needes must dresse the milk-white doe,
Which you

do knowe full well.

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Then streight his cruell bloodye hands,

He on the ladye layd ;
Who quivering and shaking stands,

While thus to her he sayd :

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Thou art the doe that I must dresse;

See here, behold my knife; For it is pointed presently

To ridd thee of thy life.

O then, cried out the scullion-boye,

As loud as loud might bee;
O save her life, good master-cook,

And make your pyes of mee!

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For pityes sake do not destroye

My ladye with your knife;
You know shee is her father's joye,

For Christes sake save her life.

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I will not save her life, he sayd,

Nor make my pyes of thee ;
Yet if thou dost this deed bewrayé,

Thy butcher I will bee.

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Now when this lord he did come home

For to sit downe and eat;
He called for his daughter deare,

To come and carve his meat.

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Now sit you downe, his ladye sayd,'

O sit you downe to meat: bc Into some nunnery

Your daughter deare forget.

she is gone;

Then solemnlye he made a vowe,

Before the companie:
That he would neither eat nor drinke,

Until he did her see.

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O then bespake the scullion-boye,

With a loud voice so hye:
If now you will your daughter see,

My lord, cut up that pye:

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Wherein her fleshe is minced small,

And parched with the fire; All caused by her step-mother,

Who did her death desire.

And

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And cursed bee the master-cook,

O cursed may he bee !
I proffered him my own heart's blood,

From death to set her free.'

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Then all in blacke this lord did mourne;

And for his daughters sake,
He judged her cruell step-mother

To be burnt at a stake.

Likewise he judg'd the master-cook

In boiling lead to stand ;
And made the simple scullion-boye

The heire of all his land.

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This Song is a kind of Translation of a pretty poem of Tasso's, called Amore fuggitivo, generally printed with his AMINTA, and originally imitated from the first Idyllium of Moschus.

It is extracted from Ben Jonson's Masque at the marriage of lord viscount Hadington, on Shrove-Tuesday 1608. One stanza, full of dry mythology, is here omitted, as it had been dropt in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called “Le Prince d'Amour. Lond. 1660,” 8vo.

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Shee, that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kisse,
How and where herselfe would wish :
But who brings him to his mother
Shall have that kisse, and another.

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Markes

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Markes he hath about him plentie;
You may know him among twentie:
All his body is a fire,
And his breath a flame entire :
Which, being shot, like lightning, in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

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Wings he hath, which though yee clip,
He will leape from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart;
Yet not stay in any part.
And, if ehance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himselfe in kisses.

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He doth beare a golden bow,
And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrowes, which outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharpe than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

Still the fairest are his fuell,
When his daies are to be cruell ;
Lovers hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest bloud:
Nought but wounds his hand doth season,
And he hat none like to Reason,

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