Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy Volume V Part 6

And said our King was yet too young, And of but tender Age; Therefore they pa.s.s not for his Threats, Nor fear not his Courage.

His Knowledge yet in Feats of Arms, As yet is very small; His tender Joints more fitter are, To toss a Tennis-ball.

A Tun of Tennis-b.a.l.l.s therefore, In Pride and great Disdain; He sent unto this Royal King, To recompence his Pain.

Which Answer when our King did hear, He waxed wroth in Heart; And swore he would provide such b.a.l.l.s, Should make all _France_ to smart.

An Army then our King did hold, Which was both good and strong; And from _Southampton_ is our King, With all his Navy gone.

In _France_ he landed safe and sound, Both he and all his Train; And to the Town of _Husle_ then He marched up amain.

Which when he had besieg'd the Town, Against the fenced Walls; To batter down the stately Towers, He sent his _English_ b.a.l.l.s.

When this was done our King did march, Then up and down the Land; And not a _Frenchman_ for his Life, Durst once his Force withstand.

Until he came to _Agencourt_, Whereas it was his chance; To find the King in readiness, With all the Power of _France_.

A mighty Host he had prepar'd, Of Armed Soldiers then; Which were no less by just Account, Than Forty Thousand Men.

Which sight did much amaze our King, For he and all his Host; Not pa.s.sing Fifteen Thousand had, Accounted with the most.

The King of _France_ who well did know, The Number of our Men; In vaunting Pride and great Disdain, Did send an Herald then:

To understand what he would give, For Ransom of his Life, When they in Field had taken him, Amongst the b.l.o.o.d.y strife.

And when our King with cheerful Heart, This answer then did make; Before that it does come to pa.s.s, Some of your Hearts will ake.

And to your proud presumptuous King, Declare this thing, quoth he; My own Heart's-blood will pay the Price, Nought else he gets of me.

Then spake the n.o.ble Duke of _York_, O n.o.ble King, quoth he, The Leading of this Battle brave, It doth belong to me.

G.o.d-a-mercy Cousin _York_, he said, I grant thee thy Request; Then lead thou on couragiously, And I will lead the rest.

Then came the bragging _Frenchmen_ down, With cruel Force and Might; With whom our n.o.ble King began, A fierce and dreadful Fight.

The Archers they discharg'd their Shafts, As thick as Hail from Skie; And many a _Frenchman_ in the Field, That happy Day did die.

Their Horses tumbled on the Stakes, And so their Lives they lost; And many a _Frenchman_ there was ta'en, As Prisoners to their cost.

Ten Thousand Men that Day was slain, As Enemies in the Field: And eke as many Prisoners, Were forc'd that Day to yield.

Thus had our King a happy Day, And Victory over _France_; And brought them quickly under foot That late in Pride did prance.

G.o.d save our King, and bless this Land, And grant to him likewise; The upper-hand and Victory, Of all his Enemies.

_The Lady_ ISABELLA'S _Tragedy: Or, the Step-Mother's Cruelty._ _To the foregoing Tune._

There was a Lord of worthy Fame, And a Hunting he would ride, Attended by a n.o.ble Train, Of Gentry on each side.

And whilst he did in Chace remain, To see both Sport and Play; His Lady went as she did feign, Unto the Church to pray.

This Lord he had a Daughter Fair, Whose Beauty shin'd so bright; She was belov'd both far and near, Of many a Lord and Knight.

Fair _Isabella_ was she call'd, A Creature Fair was she; She was her Father's only Joy, As you shall after see.

But yet her Cruel Step-Mother, Did Envy her so much; That Day by Day she sought her Life, Her Malice it was such.

She bargain'd with the Master-Cook, To take her Life away; And taking of her Daughter's Book, She thus to her did say.

Go home, sweet Daughter, I thee pray.

Go hasten presently; And tell unto the Master-Cook, These Words which I tell thee.

And bid him dress to Dinner straight, That fair and milk-white Doe; That in the Park doth shine so bright, There's none so fair to show.

This Lady fearing of no harm, Obey'd her Mother's Will; And presently she hasted home, Her Mind for to fulfil.

She straight into the Kitchin went, Her Message for to tell, And there the Master-Cook she spy'd, Who did with Malice swell.

Now Master-Cook it must be so, Do that which I thee tell; You needs must dress the milk-white Doe, Which you do know full well.

Then straight his cruel b.l.o.o.d.y Hands, He on the Lady laid; Who quivering and shaking stands, While thus to her he said:

Thou art the Doe that I must dress, See here, behold my Knife; For it is Pointed presently, To rid thee of thy Life.

O then cry'd out the Scullion Boy, As loud as loud might be; O save her Life, good Master-Cook, And make your Pies of me?

For pity sake do not destroy My Lady with your Knife; You know she is her Father's Joy, For Christ's sake save her Life.

I will not save her Life he said, Nor make my Pies of thee; Yet if thou dost this Deed betray, Thy Butcher I will be;

Now when this Lord he did come home, For to sit down to Meat; He called for his Daughter dear, To come and carve his Meat.

Now sit you down, his Lady said, O sit you down to Meat; Into some Nunnery she's gone, Your Daughter dear forget.

Then solemnly he made a Vow, Before the Company; That he would neither eat nor drink, Until he did her see.

O then bespoke the Scullion Boy, With a loud Voice so high; If that you will your Daughter see My Lord cut up the Pye.

Wherein her Flesh is minced small, And parched with the Fire; All caused by her Step-Mother, Who did her Death desire.

And cursed be the Master-Cook, O cursed may he be!

I proffer'd him my own Heart's Blood, From Death to set her free.

Then all in Black this Lord did Mourn, And for his Daughter's sake; He judged for her Step-Mother, To be burnt at a Stake.