MORTE DARTHUR

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and come again, and tell me what thou there seest. My lord, said Bedivere, your commandment shall be done, and lightly bring you word again. So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way he beheld that noble sword, that the pommel and the haft was all of precious stones, and then he said to himself, If I throw this rich sword in the water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and loss. And then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree. And so as soon as he might he came again unto the king, and said he had been at the water, and had thrown the sword in the water. What saw thou there? said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but waves and winds. That is untruly said of thee, said the king; therefore go thou lightly again, and do my commandment; as thou art to me lief and dear, spare not, but throw it in. Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand; and then him thought sin and shame to throw away that noble sword; and so eft he hid the sword, and returned again, and told to the king that he had been at the water, and done his commandment. What saw thou there? said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but the waters wap and the waves wan. Ah traitor, untrue, said King Arthur, now hast thou betrayed me twice. Who would have weened that thou that hast been to me so lief and dear, and thou art named a noble knight, and would betray me for the riches of the sword. But now go again lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold. And but if thou do now as I bid thee, if ever I may see thee, I shall slay thee with mine own hands, for thou wouldst for my rich sword see me dead. Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the water side, and there he bound the girdle about the hilts, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might, and there came an arm and an hand above the water, and met it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished, and then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and told him what he saw. Alas, said the king, help me hence, for I dread me I have tarried over long.

Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back, and so went with him to that water side. And when they were at the water side, even fast by the bank hoved a little barge, with many fair ladies in it, and among them all was a queen, and all they had black hoods, and all they wept and shrieked when they saw King Arthur. Now put me into the barge, said the king and so he did softly. And there received him three queens with great mourning, and so they set them down, and in one of their laps King Arthur laid his head, and then that queen said, Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so long from me? Alas, this wound on your head hath caught over much cold. And so then they rowed from the land; and Sir Bedivere beheld all those ladies go from him. Then Sir Bedivere cried, Ah, my lord Arthur, what shall become of me now ye go from me, and leave me here alone among mine enemies. Comfort thyself, said the king, and do as well as thou mayest, for in me is no trust for to trust in. For I will into the vale of Avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. And if thou hear never more of me, pray for my soul. But ever the queens and the ladies wept and shrieked, that it was pity to hear. And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the sight of the barge, he wept and wailed, and so took the forest, and so he went all that night, and in the morning he was ware betwixt two holts hoar of a chapel and an hermitage.

Morte Darthur.

JOHN SKELTON

(1460-1529)

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY

MERRY Margaret

As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower:
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;

WILLIAM DUNBAR

So joyously,

So maidenly,

So womanly
Her demeaning
In every thing,
Far, far passing
That I can indite

Or suffice to write
Of Merry Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower.
As patient and still
And as full of good will
As fair Isaphill,
Coliander,

Sweet pomander,
Good Cassander ;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought,
Far may be sought,
Ere that ye can find
So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower.

WILLIAM DUNBAR

(1465-1530)

IN HONOUR OF THE CITY OF LONDON

LONDON, thou art of townes A per se.
Soveraign of cities, seemliest in sight,

Of high renoun, riches and royaltie;

Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght;
Of most delectable lusty ladies bright;

Of famous prelatis, in habitis clericall;

Of merchauntis full of substaunce and of myght: London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Gladdith anon, thou lusty Troynovaunt,
Citie that some tyme cleped was New Troy;
In all the erth, imperiall as thou stant,

Pryncesse of townes, of pleasure and of joy,
A richer restith under no Christen roy;
For manly power, with craftis naturall,
Fourmeth none fairer sith the flode of Noy :
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Gemme of all joy, jaspre of jocunditie,
Most myghty carbuncle of vertue and valour;
Strong Troy in vigour and in strenuytie;
Of royall cities, rose and geraflour;
Empress of townes, exalt in honour ;
In beawtie beryng the crone imperiall;
Swete paradise precelling in pleasure:
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Above all ryvers thy Ryver hath renowne,

Whose beryall stremys, pleasaunt and preclare,
Under thy lusty wallys renneth down,

Where many a swan doth swymme with wyngis fair ;
Where many a barge doth saile and row with are ;
Where many a ship doth rest with top-royall.

O, towne of townes ! patrone and not compare,
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Upon thy lusty Brigge of pylers white
Been merchauntis full royall to behold;
Upon thy stretis go'th many a semely knyght
In velvet gownes and in cheynes of gold.
By Julyus Cesar thy Tour founded of old

gladdith be glad. fourmeth=appeareth. are oars. not compare unequalled.

geraflour pink.

LAMENT FOR THE MAKERS

May be the hous of Mars victoryall,

Whose artillary with tonge may not be told : London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Strong be thy wallis that about the standis ;
Wise be the people that within the dwellis;
Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strandis ;

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Blith be thy chirches, wele sownyng be thy bellis ; Rich be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excellis ; Fair be their wives, right lovesom, white and small; Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kellis : London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Thy famous Maire, by pryncely governaunce,
With sword of justice thee ruleth prudently.
No Lord of Parys, Venyce, or Floraunce
In dignitye or honour go'th to hym nigh.
He is exempler, loode-ster, and guye;
Principall patrone and rose orygnalle,

Above all Maires as maister most worthy :
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

LAMENT FOR THE MAKERS

I THAT in heill was and gladnèss
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie :-

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance here is all vain glory,
This fals world is but transitory,

The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee :-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

the thee. bruckle-brittle.

kellis=hoods.
slee=sly.

guye=guide.

heill-health.