Thou hadst seven hundred wives at once, And they made thee forsake thy God, 65 And worship stockes and stones; Besides the charge they put thee to In breeding of young bones. So vile a scold as this. Thou whore-son run-away, quoth she, Thou diddest more amiss. 'They say,' quoth Thomas, womens tongues Of aspen-leaves are made. Thou unbelieving wretch, quoth she, All is not true that's sayd. When Mary Magdalen heard her then, She came unto the gate. Quoth she, good woman, you must think Ver. 77. I think. P. 75 80 No sinner enters in this place 85 Quoth Mary Magdalene. Then 'Twere ill for you, fair mistress mine, She answered her agen: I hope my soul in Christ his passion, 95 All through a lewd desire: How thou didst persecute God's church, With wrath as hot as fire. Then up starts Peter at the last, And to the gate he hies: Fond fool, quoth he, knock not so fast Thou weariest Christ with cries. 105 Peter, said she, content thyselfe, For mercye may be won, I never did deny my Christ, 110 As thou thyselfe hast done. When as our Saviour Christ heard this, 115 He comes unto this sinful soul, Who trembled at his sight. Of him for mercye she did crave. Quoth he, thou hast refus'd My profferd grace, and mercy both, 120 And much my name abus'd. Sore have I sinned, Lord, she sayd, And spent my time in vaine, But bring me like a wandring sheepe Into thy flocke againe. 125 O Lord my God, I will amend The thief for one poor silly word, My lawes and my commandiments, 130 Saith Christ, were knowne to thee; But of the same in any wise, Not yet one word did yee. I grant the same, O Lord, quoth she; FROM two ancient copies in black-letter: one in the Pepys collection, the other in the British Museum. To the tune of The Lady's Fall. COME mourne, come mourne with mee, You loyall lovers all; Lament my loss in weeds of woe, Whom griping grief doth thrall. Like to the drooping vine, Cut by the gardener's knife, Even so my heart, with sorrow slaine, By death, that grislye ghost, My turtle dove is slaine, And I am left, unhappy man, To spend my dayes in paine. 5 10 Her beauty late so bright, Like roses in their prime, Is wasted like the mountain snowe, Her faire red colour'd cheeks Now pale and wan; her eyes, That late did shine like crystal stars, Alas, their light it dies : Her pretty lilly, hands, With fingers long and small, In colour like the earthlye claye, When as the morning-star Her golden gates had spred, And that the glittering sun arose Forth from fair Thetis' bed; Then did my love awake, Most like a lilly-flower, And as the lovely queene of heaven, So shone shee in her bower. Attired was shee then Like Flora in her pride, Like one of bright Diana's nymphs, 30 335 |