The king to them his purse did cast,
And they to part it made great haste;
The silly woman was the last

That after them did hye.

The king he cal'd her back again,

And unto her he gave his chaine;

And said, "With us you shall remain
Till such time as we dye:

"For thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, And honoured like the queene; With thee I meane to lead my life,

As shortly shall be seene:

Our wedding day shall appointed be,
And every thing in their degree:
Come on," quoth he, "and follow me,
Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.
What is thy name?-go on," quoth he.
"Penelophon, O king!" quoth she:
With that she made a lowe courtsey;

A trim one as I weene.

Thus, hand in hand, along they walke
Unto the king's palace:

The king with courteous, comly talke,

This beggar doth embrace.

The beggar blusheth scarlet read,
And straight againe as pale as lead,

But not a word at all she said,

She was in such amaze.

At last she spake with trembling voyce,
And said, "O king; I do rejoyce
That you will take me for your choice,
And my degree so base."

And when the wedding day was come,
The king commanded straight
The noblemen, both all and some,
Upon the queene to waight.
And she behav'd herself that day,
As if she had never walk't the way;
She had forgot her gowne of gray,
Which she did wear of late.

The proverb old is come to passe,
The priest when he begins the masse,
Forgets that ever clarke he was;
He know'th not his estate.

Hear may you read, Cophetua,
Through fancie long time fed,
Compelled by the blinded boy
The beggar for to wed:

He that did lovers' lookes disdaine,

To do the same was glad and fain,
Or else he would himself have slaine,
In stories as we read.

Disdain no whit, O lady deere!
But pitty now thy servant heere,
Lest that it hap to thee, this yeare
As to the king it did.

And thus they lead a quiet life
During their princely raigne,
And in a tomb were buried both;
As writers shew us plaine.
The lords they tooke it grievously,
The ladies tooke it heavily,
The commons cryed pittiously,
Their death to them was pain.
Their fame did sound so passingly,
That it did pierce the starry sky,
And throughout all the earth did flye,
To every prince's realme.

A LOVER'S SONG IN PRAISE OF HIS MISTRESS. To the Tune of "Apelles."

Ir that Apelles now did raigne,

Whoever sought for to have fame

He might have wone with lesser paine,
A greater honor to his name;

For, with great paine, he sought all Greece
Till he had found the fairest peece.

Throughout all Greece he could not view So fair, so feat, so fine withall;

Nor

yet his pencell never drew

So fair a peece, nor never shall.

E

Wherefore, if he had seen these dayes,

He might have wone a greater praise.

Oh! happy man, might he have said,
If he had lived to this time,
For to have seen so fair a maide,

In all proportions made so fine;
Her fullgent face so faire, so cleare,

That Europe cannot [shew] her peere.

Pygmalion, with his gravers, then
Could never worke so fair a peece,
Nor yet Apelles, in his time,

Did ever see the like in Greece:
For, if he had, he would have said
That Venus was not like this maid.

She is a graft of noble groweth,

And worthy is she of her fame, For why her vertues plainly showeth

That well she hath deserv'd the same: Wherefore my painfull pen all waies,

Shall never cease to write her praise.

O that my pen could print her praise
According to her just desert,
That I might say, and see those dayes,
That I desired with my heart!

For still I thought, and ever shall,

My mistres' praise might passe them all.

Now proof and praise in one is knit,

And hath blowne to praise this maide, And justice doth in judgment sit

For to performe that I have said. Thus to conclude, and end to make, Unto the gods I her betake.

ANOTHER.

To a new Tune.

THE bee doth love the sweetest flower, So doth the blossome the Aprill shower, And I doe love that lady truely:

Why should not I love her that loves me?

The bird doth love the morning bright,
To see the day is her delight,

And I do [love] to see her face,

In whome, that I doe love, is my solace.

The fish doth love the flouds by kind,
For want of it they are but pynd,
And I doe love her presence also,
Whom that I love, and love no moe.

The lypard doth love to lie and pry
Upon the faces that goeth him by,
And I doe love to looke and gaze
Upon my true love's pleasant face.