And broke his parks, and slaine his dere ;
Over all they chose the best;
So perelous outlawes as they were
Walked not by easte nor west.

When the kynge this letter had red,
In hys harte he syghed sore:
Take up the table anone he bad,
For I may eat no more.

The kyng called hys best archars
To the buttes wyth hym to go:
I wyll se these felowes shote, he sayd,
In the north have wrought this wo.

The kynges bowmen buske them blyve,
And the quenes archers also;
So dyd these thre wyght yemen;
With them they thought to go.

There twyse or thryse they shote about,
For to assay theyr hande;

There was no shote these yemen shot,
That any prycke myght them stand.

Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslè;
By him that for me dyed,
I hold hym never no good archar,
That shuteth at buttes so wyde.

Whereat? then sayd our kyng,
I pray thee tell me.
At suche a but, syr, he sayd,
As men use in my countree.

Wyllyam went into a fyeld,

And his to brethren with him,
There they set up to hasell roddes,
Twenty score paces betwene.

I hold him an archar, said Cloudeslè,
That yonder wande cleveth in two.
Here is none suche, sayd the kyng,
Nor none that can so do.

I shall assaye, syr, sayd Cloudeslè,
Or that I farther go.

Cloudesly, with a bearyng arow,
Clave the wand in to.

Thou art the best archer, then said the king,
For sothe that ever I se.

And yet for your love, sayd Wylliam,
I wyll do more maystry.

I have a sonne is seven yere olde,
He is to me full deare;

I wyll hym tye to a stake;
All shall se, that be here;

And lay an apele upon hys head,
And go syxe score paces hym fro,
And I myselfe with a brode arow
Shall cleve the apple in two.

Now haste the, then sayd the kyng,
By hym that dyed on a tre,

But yf thou do not, as thou hest sayde,
Hanged shalt thou be.

And thou touche his head or gowne,
In syght that men may se,

By all the sayntes that be in heaven,
I shall hange you all thre.

That I have promised, said William,
I wyl it never forsake.

And there even before the kynge
In the earth he drove a stake;

And bound therto his eldest sonne,
And bad hym stande styll thereat;
And turned the childes face fro him,
Because he shuld not sterte.

An apple upon his head he set,
And then his bowe he bent:
Syxe score paces they were outmet,
And thether Cloudeslè went.

There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe,
Hys bowe was great and longe,

He set that arrowe in his bowe,

That was both styffe and stronge:

He prayed the people that was there,
That they wolde styll stande,

For he that shooteth for such a wager,

Muche people prayed for Cloudeslè,
That hys lyfe saved myght be,
And whan he made hym redy to shote,
There was many a weping eye.

Thus Cloudeslè clefte the apple in two,
That many a man myght see;
Ouer Gods forbode, sayde the kynge,
That thou shote at me.

And my

bowe shalt thou beare,

And over all the north countrè

I make the chyfe rydère.

And I geve the xvii pence a day, said the quene,
By God, and by my fay:

Come feche thy payment when thou wylt,
No man shall say the nay.

Wyllyam, I make the a gentelman

Of clothyng, and of fe:

And thy two brethren, yemen of my chambre,
For they are so semely to se.

Your sonne, for he is tendre of age,

Of my wyne-seller shall he be;

And whan he commeth to mannes estate,

Better avaunced shall he be.

And, Wylliam, bring me your wife, said the quene, Me longeth her sore to se:

She shall be my chefe gentelwoman,

To governe my nursery.

The yemen thanketh them full curteously,

And sayde, to some bysshop wyl we wend,

Of all the synnes, that we have done,

To be assoyld at his hand.

So forth be gone these good yemen,
As fast as they might hye,

And after came and dwelled wyth the kynge,
And dyed good men all thre.

Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen;
God send them eternall blysse !

And all, that with handebowe shoteth,
That of heaven may never mysse!

King Cophetua and the Beggar-Ataid.

[This ballad is taken from The Crown Garland of Golden Roses,' as reprinted in 1842 by the Percy Society; where it is entitled simply 'A song of a Beggar and a King.' It was printed by Percy in his 'Reliques,' corrected by another copy. The Story, as Percy remarks, is often alluded to by our old dramatic writers: he instances Shakespeare, 'Love's Labour's Lost,' Act i. Sc. 2; and Act iv. Sc. 1: 'King Richard II.,' Act v. Sc. 3; King Henry IV.,' part 2, Act v. Sc. 3: Romeo and Juliet,' Act ii. Sc. 1; Ben Jonson, Every Man in his Humour' Act iii. Sc. 4. It was an old ballad in the days of Shakespeare, for in the first of the above mentioned passages, in reply to Don Armado's question, 'Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar,' he makes Moth say, The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since;' while, from the next part of his answer, but, I think, now 'tis not to be found,' it would seem to have been scarce as well as old. The Crown Garland,' in which it has been handed down to our day, was first published in 1612; fourteen years after the first appearance of 'Love's Labour's Lost.' It may therefore have been recovered in the 1.terval.]

READ that once in Affrica
A princely wight did raine,
Who had to name Cophetua,

From natures lawes he did decline,
For sure he was not of my mind,
He cared not for women-kinde,
But did them all disdaine.
But, marke, what hapned on a day,
As he out of his window lay,

He saw a beggar all in gray,

The which did cause his paine.

The blinded boy that shootes so trim,

From heaven downe did hie; He drew a dart and shot at him,

In place where he did lye:

Which soone did pierse him to the quicke, And when he felt the arrow pricke, Which in his tender heart did sticke,

He looked as he would dye.

What sudden chance is this, quoth he,
That I to love must subject be,
Which never thereto would agree,

But still did it defie?

Then from the window he did come,
And laid him on his bed.

A thousand heapes of care did runne
Within his troubled head:

For now he meanes to crave her love,

And now he seekes which way to proove How he his fancie might remoove,

And not this beggar wed.

But Cupid had him so in snare,
That this poor begger must prepare
A salve to cure him of his care,
Or els he would be dead,

And, as he musing thus did lye;
He thought for to devise,
How he might have her companye,
That so did 'maze his eyes.
In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life;
For surely thou shalt be my wife,
Or else this hand with bloody knife,