The Bride's Burial. To The Tune Of The Lady's Fall Poem by Anonymous British

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,
Doth bleed for my sweet wife.

By death, that grislye ghost,
My turtle dove is slaine,
And I am left, unhappy man,
To spend my dayes in paine.

Her beauty late so bright,
Like roses in their prime,
Is wasted like the mountain snowe,
Before warme Phoebus' shine.

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,
Yea, cold and stiff withall.

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,
She look'd my loving bride.

And as fair Helen's face
Did Grecian dames besmirche,
So did my dear exceed in sight
All virgins in the church.

When we had knitt the knott
Of holy wedlock-band,
Like alabaster joyn'd to jett,
So stood we hand in hand;

Then lo! a chilling cold
Strucke every vital part,
And griping grief, like pangs of death,
Seiz'd on my true love's heart.

Down in a swoon she fell,
As cold as any stone;
Like Venus picture lacking life,
So was my love brought home.

At length her rosye red
Throughout her comely face
As Phoebus beames with watry cloudes,
Was cover'd for a space.

When with a grievous groane,
And voice both hoarse and drye,
'Farewell,' quoth she, 'my loving friend,
For I this daye must dye;

'The messenger of God
With golden trumpe I see,
With manye other angels more
Which sound and call for mee.

'Instead of musicke sweet,
Go toll my passing-bell;
And with sweet flowers strow my grave,
That in my chamber smell.

'Stripp off my bride's arraye,
My cork shoes from my feet;
And, gentle mother, be not coye
To bring my winding-sheet.

'My wedding dinner drest,
Bestowe upon the poor,
And on the hungry, needy, maimde,
Now craving at the door.

'Instead of virgins yong
My bride-bed for to see,
Go cause some cunning carpenter
To make a chest for mee.

'My bride laces of silk
Bestowd, for maidens meet,
May fitly serve, when I am dead,
To tye my hands and feet.

'And thou, my lover true,
My husband and my friend,
Let me intreat thee here to staye,
Until my life doth end.

'Now leave to talk of love,
And humblye on your knee,
Direct your prayers unto God:
But mourn no more for mee.

'In love as we have livde,
In love let us depart;
And I, in token of my love,
Do kiss thee with my heart.

'O staunch those bootless teares,
Thy weeping tis in vaine;
I am not lost, for wee in heaven
Shall one daye meet againe.'

With that she turn'd aside,
As one dispos'd to sleep,
And, like a lamb, departed life:
Whose friends did sorely weep.

Her true love seeing this,
Did fetch a grievous groane,
As tho' his heart would burst in twaine,
And thus he made his moane.

'O darke and dismal daye,
A daye of grief and care,
That hath bereft the sun so bright,
Whose beams refresht the air.

'Now woe unto the world
And all that therein dwell,
O that I were with thee in heaven,
For here I live in hell!'

And now this lover lives
A discontented life,
Whose bride was brought unto the grave
A maiden and a wife.

A garland fresh and faire
Of lillies there was made,
In sign of her virginitye,
And on her coffin laid.

Six maidens all in white,
Did beare her to the ground;
The bells did ring in solemn sort,
And made a dolefull sound.

In earth they laid her then,
For hungry wormes a preye;
So shall the fairest face alive
At length be brought to claye.

The Lady Isabella's Tragedy

There was a lord of worthy fame,
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble traine
Of gentrye by his side.

And while he did in chase remaine,
To see both sport and playe,
His ladye went, as she did feigne,
Unto the church to praye.

This lord he had a daughter deare,
Whose beauty shone so bright,
She was belov'd, both far and neare,
Of many a lord and knight.

Fair Isabella was she calld',
A creature faire was shee;
She was her father's only joye;
As you shall after see.

Therefore her cruel step-mother
Did envye her so much,
That daye by daye she sought her life,
Her malice it was such.

She bargain'd with the master-cook
To take her life awaye;
And taking of her daughters book,
She thus to her did saye:—

'Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye,
Go hasten presentlie,
And tell unto the master-cook
These wordes that I tell thee.

'And bid him dresse to dinner streight
That faire and milk-white doe
That in the park doth shine so bright,
There's none so faire to showe.'

This ladye fearing of no harme,
Obey'd her mothers will;
And presentlye she hasted home,
Her pleasure to fulfill.

She streight into the kitchen went,
Her message for to tell;
And there she spied the master-cook,
Who did with malice swell.

'Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,
Do that which I thee tell;
You needes must dresse the milk-white doe,
Which you doe know full well.'

Then streight his cruell bloodye hands
He on the ladye layd;
Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he sayd:

'Thou art the doe that I must dresse;
See here, behold the 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!

'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!'

'I will not save her life,' he sayd,
'Nor make my pyes of thee;
Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,
Thy butcher I will bee.'

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.

'Now sit you downe,' his ladye sayd,
'O sit you downe to meat;
Into some nunnery she is gone;
Your daughter deare forget.'

Then solemnlye he made a vowe
Before the companie,
That he would neither eat nor drinke,
Until he did her see.

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:

'Wherein her fleshe is minced small,
And parched with the fire;
All caused by her step-mother,
Who did her death desire.

'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.'

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.