He coude songes make and wel endite, Juste and eke dance, and wel pourtraie and write. He slep no more than doth the nightingale. And carf before his fader at the table. SIR MARMADUKE DE LARGESSE, his worthy chaplain, and his old acquaintance the Antiquary, were sitting round a table in the library seemingly wonderfully intent upon something. The good old knight sat back in his seat with one hand upon the handle of his rapier, and the other resting upon the arm of his high-backed chair, his benevolent cheerful countenance impressed with a sort of curious pleasure, and his white beard and hair looking more silvery than ever they had. At a little dis tance from him sat Sir Johan, getting to be almost as lustily limbed as his patron, his plump sleek features proving he had as much reason to be as prodigally grateful to Providence as he had been at any time; and also exhibiting in his countenance a pleasant mingling of curiousness and satisfaction. Both of these gazed upon Master Peregrine, who, with as much of the pantaloon in his appearance as ever, sat forward leaning of his elbows on a large book open upon the table, his hands holding a paper, and his eyes peering through his spectacles with a marvellous gratification, sometimes at his companions, and anon at what he held in his hands. "Never read I anything so sweetly fashioned!" exclaimed he. "I remember with what singular exquisite satisfaction I first read the most choice ballads of Fair Margaret and Sweet William, Lord Thomas and Fair Eleanor, and Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard, but the pleasure was nought in comparison with what I felt on perusing this most rare writing." 66 Marry, give me Chevy Chace, or the Battle of Otterborne !" cried Sir Marmaduke. "I never hear a verse of either but it stirreth me like a very trumpet." "I deny nothing of their excellence," observed the chaplain ; "but who could for a moment compare them with the inestimable sublimity of Pindar, the luscious sweetness of Anacreon, or the moving melodiousness of Musæsus ? I do assure you, that among the Greeks-to say nought of the Romans-there is such brave store of odes, songs, and elegies of the very choicest sort, as doth exceed all possible comprehension." "Tut, tut!" replied the antiquary, impatiently; "wouldst make me believe there hath ever been anything writ, or thought of, more gallant than Havelok the Dane, more pastoral than Harpalus, or more touching than Lady Greensleeves ?" 66 Beyond the possibility of doubting, worthy sir," answered Sir Johan; "There shall easily be found in Homer things more martial, in Theocritus things more natural, and in Sappho things more tender." "Passion o' my heart! what bath become of thy wits, I wonder!" exclaimed Master Peregrine, in a manner between astonishment and indignation; "I marvel that thou shouldst essay to prove thyself such an addle brain." Nay, if any brains be addled, Master Peregrine, it must needs be your own," replied the chaplain; "for 'tis out of all sense and reason to slight the infinite choicer beauties of classic song for a parcel of silly old ditties." Silly old ditties!" echoed the enraged antiquary, looking over his spectacles, as though he had a mind to VOL. II. 5 do Sir Johan some grievous harm. "Is 'Lustely, lustely let us saile forthe!' a silly old ditty? Is Kytt hathe lost hur key,' a silly old ditty. Is Jolly good Ale!' a silly old ditty? Is Guy of Colbronde, or Sir Tristrem, or John Dory, or a thousand others of the like unmatchable perfectness, silly old ditties? thou shallowwitted, ignorant, poor goose, thou!" "I cry you mercy, my masters," exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, good-humoredly, as he had oft done on many similar occasions. "When you get to talk of these matters, you are like unto two lusty bulls, who cannot enter the same pasture without going to loggerheads. Surely, in advocating the excellency of a thing, there is no argument in squabbling." "Silly old ditties!" repeated Master Peregrine, with considerable emphasis. "For mine own part," continued the knight, "though I will in no way seek to lessen the estimableness of the ancient writers, either Greek or Latin, some how or other these same old ballads afford me that rare pleasure I have never found in songs of a more classic sort." "Perchance, I am somewhat to blame, in having expressed myself so slightingly of such things," observed Sir Johan, whose orthodoxy never led him to oppose his patron's opinion; "I meant no offence, believe me. Indeed, I do opine some of these excellent fine ballads, so liked of my esteemed friend here, are of a wonderful delicate conception; but Providence, who is ever so exceeding bountiful, hath wisely ordained us different tastes, that one liking one thing, and another liking something different, no one thing should exist without being held in some estimation." "Silly old ditties!" Master Peregrine would have said again, but his better nature prevailed, and he swallowed the muttered words; yet, with an air of triumph, as if he thought himself on a par with one of his beloved heroes of the Round table. "And now for that sweet song you have promised us," exclaimed Sir Marmaduke; "you have spoken of it so fairly I am all impatient to be hearing it." "O' my word and so am I," replied his chaplain, eagerly; "and as Master Peregrine hath such famous judgment in these matters, I doubt not he hath a rare treat in store for us." At this compliment to his judgment, all trace of displeasure vanished from the features of the antiquary; anil he said some civil speech, in modest denial of having more judgment than so learned a person as Sir Johan, took off his spectacles, wiped them carefully, replaced them, hemmed some twice or thrice, brought the paper somewhat closer to his nose, and with an appropriate serious manner read what is here set down: THE POET'S SONG OF HIS SECRET LOVE. "Upon the dainty grass I lay me down And then such glad solace I make my own, I cannot but conceive she loveth me. I pry thee tell me not of such bright fires Sun, moon, and stars are shining in her eyes. The tender blossoms blush upon their bowers, Alack, what pity 'tis, such moving sight I take no pleasure now in pleasant sports, Yet though my heart with her so long hath been, I long to speak and yet I keep aloof. And whilst my sweeting fills my thoughts-Perdie ! Wher'er I turn methinks I see her face, If any lovely thing can there be found; And with her looks the flowers peep from the ground. She may incline to say she loveth me. But when from all fair things I travel far, Enwrapped within the shroud of darkest night; She rises through the shadows like a star, And with her beauty maketh the place bright. "Indeed, 'tis a sweet ballad and a simple !" exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, who had listened with a famous attentiveness. "And of a most chaste and delicate fancy," added his chaplain, who seemed not a whit less pleased. "O' my word, it is long since I have heard verses writ with so natural a grace, or of so truly dainty a conceit. It remindeth me of those exquisite simple, tender poems, that are to be found here and there scattered amongst productions of the minor Greek poets." "Dost not know by whom it is written, Master Peregrine," inquired the old knight, seemingly to prevent the scornful reply the antiquary was about making to Sir Johan's allusion to the superiority of the classic writers. "No, nor can I guess," answered Master Peregrine; "I have never seen nor heard of it before, and I am in some doubt as to its exact age, yet I could venture to make a guess from certain marks it hath, that it cannot be later than the time of Henry the Eighth." "Per ""Tis like enough," observed Sir Marmaduke. chance, it may be one of those same ballads our young scholar hath learned of his mother, and hath copied for your express delectation, left it in the book, and so forgot it." |