WARRE.

BY THE SAME.

[From Barrett's History of Bristol. Chatterton says, "As you approve of the small specimen of his poetry, I have sent you a larger, which though admirable is still (in my opinion) inferior to Rowley', whose workes when I have leisure I will fairly copy and send you.]

laie,

Or warres glumm pleasaunce doe I chaunte mie [the lyne, Trouthe tips the poynctelle, wysdomme skemps Whylste hoare experiaunce telleth what toe saie, And forwyned hosbandrie wyth blearie eyne, Stondeth and woe bements; the trecklynge bryne Rounnynge adone hys cheekes which doeth shewe Lyke hys unfrutefulle fieldes, longe straungers to the ploughe.

Saie, Glowster, whanne besprenged on evrich syde, The gentle hyndlette and the vylleyn felle; Whanne smetheynge sange dyd flowe lyke to a tyde,

And sprytes were damned for the lacke of knelle, Diddest thou kenne ne lykeness to an Helle, Where all were misdeedes doeyng lyche unwise, Where hope unbarred and deathe eftsoones dyd shote theyre eies.

Ye shepster swaynes who the ribibble kenne, Ende the thyghte daunce, ne loke uponne the spere: [menne, In ugsommnesse ware moste bee dyghte toe Unseliness attendethe honourewere; Quaffe your swote vernage and atreeted beere.

YNNE whilomme daies, as Stowe saies,
Ynne famous Brystowe towne

There lyved knyghtes doghtie yn fyghtes
Of marvellous renowne.

A Saxonne boulde renowned of oulde

For dethe and dernie dede,

Maint Tanmen slone the Brugge uponne
Icausynge hem to blede.

Baldwynne hys name, Rolles saie the same
And yev hymme rennome grate,
Hee lyved nere the Ellynteire

Al bie Seyncte Lenardes yate.
A mansion hie, made bosmorelie,
Was recred bie hys honde,
Whanne he ysterve, hys name unkerve
Inne Baldwynne streete doe stonde.
On Ellie then of Mercyann menne
As meynte of Pentells blase,

Inne Castle-stede made dofull dede

And dydde the Dans arase.

None of Rowley's pieces were ever made public, being till the year 1631 shut up in an iron chest in Redcliff church.

One Leefwyne of kyngelie Lyne

Inne Brystowe towne dyd leve,
And toe the samme for hys gode name
The Ackmanne Yate dyd gev.
Hammon a lorde of hie accorde

Was ynne the strete nempte brede;
So greate hys myghte, soe strynge yn fyghte
Onne Byker hee dyd fede.

Fitz Lupous digne of gentle lyne

Onne Radclyve made hys Baie,
Inn moddie Gronne the whyche uponne
Botte reittes and roshes laie.
Than Radciyve Strete of mansyonnes meete
In semelie gare doe stonde,
And Canynge grete of fayre estate
Bryngeth to tradynge londe.

Hardynge dydde comme from longe kyngddomme
Inne Knyvesmythe strete to lyne,
Roberte hys sonne, moche gode thynges donne
As abbattes doe blasynne.

Roberte the erle, ne conkered curll
In castle stede dyd fraie
Yynge Henrie to ynn Brystowe true
As Hydelle dyd obaie.

A maioure dheene bee and Jamne hee
Botte anne ungentle wyghte,
Seyncte Marie tende eche ammie frende
Bie hallie taper lyghte.

FIRST MYNSTREL.

Mic name is Intereste, tis I Dothe yntoe alle bosoms flie, Eche one hylten secret's myne, None so wordie, goode, and dygne, Butte wyll fynde ytte to theyr cost, Intereste wyll rule the roaste. 1 to everichone gyve lawes, Selfe ys fyrst yn everich cause.

SECOND MYNSTREL.

Iamme a faytour flame
Of lemmies melancholi,

Love somme behyghte mie name,
Some doe anemp me Follie;
Inne sprytes of meltynge molde
I sette mie burneynge sele;
To mee a goulers goulde
Doeth nete a pyne avele;
I pre upon the helthe,

And from gode redeynge flee,

The manne who woulde gette wealthe Muste never thynke of mee.

THIRD MYNSTREL.

I bee greete Dethe, alle ken mee bie the name, Botte none can saie howe I doe loose the [blame,

spryghte,

Goode menne mie tardyinge delaie docthe Botte moste ryche goulerres from mee take a flyghte;

Myckle of wealthe I see whereere I came,
Doethe mie ghastness mockle multyplye
And maketh hem afrayde to lyve or die.

FADRE.

Howe, villeyn mynstrelles, and is this your rede, Awaie: awaie: I wyll ne geve a curse, [hede, Mie sonne, mie sonne, of mie speeche take Nothynge ys goode thatte bryngeth not to purse.

THE matten belle han sounded long,

The cocks han sang their morning songe,
When lo! the tuneful clarions sound,
(Wherein all other noise was drown'd)
Did echo to the rooms around,

And greet the ears of champyons stronge;
Arise, arise from downie bedde,

For Sunne doth gin to shew his hedde!
Then each did don in seemlie gear,
What armour eche beseem'd to wear,
And on each sheelde devices shone,
Of wounded hearts and battles won,

All curious and nice echon;
With manie a tassild spear;
And mounted echeone on a steed
Unwote made ladies hearts to blede.

Heraulds eche side the clarions wound,
The horses started at the sound;

The knyghtes echeone did poynt the launce,
And to the combattes did advance;
From Hyberne, Scotland, eke from Fraunce;
Thyre prancyng horses tare the ground;
All strove to reche the place of fyghte,
The first to exercise their myghte

O'Rocke upon his courser fleet,
Swift as lightning were his feet,
First gain'd the lists and gatte him fame;
From west Hybernee isle he came,
His myghte depictur'd in his name'.
All dreded such an one to meet;
Bold as a mountain wolf he stood,
Upon his swerde sat grim dethe and bloude,

But when he threwe downe his asenglave,
Next came in syr Botelier bold and brave,
The dethe of manie a Saraceen;
Theie thought him a devil from Hells black den,

1 Probably alluding to the word rock.

Ne thinking that anie of mortalle menne
Could send so manie to the grave.

For his life to John Rumsee he render'd his thanks,
Descended from Godred the king of the Manks.

Within his sure rest he settled his speare,
And ran at O'Rocke in full career;
Their launces with the furious stroke

Into a thousand shivers broke,

Even as the thunder tears the oak,
And scatters splinters here and there;

So great the shock, their senses did depart,
The bloude all ran to strengthen up the harte.

Syr Botelier Rumsie first came from his traunce,
And from the marshall toke the launce;
O'Rocke eke chose another speere,
And ran at syr Botelier full career;
His prancynge stede the ground did tare;
In haste he made a false advance;
Syr Botelier seeing, with myghte amain
Felide him down upon the playne.

Syr Pigotte Novlin at the clarions sound,

On a milk-white stede with gold trappings around,
He couchde in his rest his silver-poynt speere,
And ferslie ranne up in full career;

But for his appearance he payed full deare,
In the first course laid on the ground;
Besmeer'd in the dust with his silver and gold,
No longer a glorious sight to behold.

Syr Botelier then having conquer'd his twayne,
Rode conqueror off the tourneying playne,
Receivying a garland from Alice's hand,
The fayrest ladye in the lande.

Syr Pigotte this viewed, and furious did stand,
Tormented in mind and bodily peyne,
Syr Botelier crown'd, most galantlie stode,
As some tall oak within the thick wode.
Awhile the shrill clarions sounded the word;
Next rode in syr John, of Adderleigh lord,
Who over his back his thick shield did bryng,
In checkee of redde and silver sheeninge,
With steede and gold trappings beseeming a king,
A guilded fine adder twyned round hie swerde.
De Bretville advanced, a man of great myghte
And couched his launce in his rest for the fyghte.

Ferse as the falling waters of the lough,
That tumble headlonge from the mountains browe,
Ev'n so they met in drierie sound,
De Bretville fell upon the ground,
The bloude from inward bruised wound,
Did out his stained helmet flowe;

As some tall bark upon the foamie main,
So laie De Bretville on the plain.

Syr John of the Dale or Compton hight,
Advanced next in lists of fyght,

He knew the tricks of tourneyinge full well,
In running race ne manne culd him excell,
Or how to wielde a sworde better tel,
And eke he was a manne of might:
On a black stede with silver trappynges dyght
He darde the dangers of the tourneyd fighte.

Within their rests their speeres they set,
So furiously ech other met,

That Compton's well intended speere
Syr John his shield in pieces tare,

And wound his hand in furious geir;
Syr Johns stele assenglave was wette:
Syr John then toe the marshal turn'd,
His breast with meekle furie burn'd.
The tenders of the feelde came in,
And bade the champyons not begyn;
Eche tourney but one hour should last,
And then one hour was gone and past.

THE ROMAUNTE OF THE CNYGHTE. BY JOHN DE BERGHAM.

[From a MS. in Chatterton's hand-writing, in the possession of Mr. Cottle.]

THE Sunne ento Vyrgyne was gotten,
The floureys al arounde onspryngede,
The woddie grasse blaunched the fenne
The quenis Ermyne arised fro bedde;
Syr knyghte dyd ymounte oponn a stede
Ne rouncie ne drybblette of make
Thanne asterte for dur'sie dede

Wythe Morglaie hys fooemenne to make blede
Eke swythyn as wynde. trees. theyre hartys to
Al doune in a delle a merke dernie delle [shake
Wheere coppys eke thighe trees there bee,
There dyd hee perchaunce I see

A damoselle askedde for ayde on her kne
An cnyghte uncourteous dydde bie her stonde
Hee hollyd herr faeste bie her honde,
Discorteous cnyghte, I doe praie nowe thou telle
Whirst doeste thou bee so to thee damselle.
The knyghte hym assoled eftsoones,
Itte beethe ne mattere of thyne.
Begon for I wayte notte thye boones.

The knyghte sed I proove on thie gaberdyne,
Alyche boars enchafed to fyghte heie flies.
The discoorteous knyghte bee strynge botte
strynger the righte,
[fyghte
The dynne bee herde a'myle for fuire in the
Tyl thee false knyghte yfallethe and dyes.
Damoysel, quod the knyghte, now comme thou

wi me,

Y wotte welle quod shee I nede thee ne fere, The knyghte yfallen badd wolde Ischulde bee, Butte loe he ys dedde maie itte spede Heaven.

were.

THE ROMANCE OF THE KNIGHT.
MODERNISED BY THOMAS CHATTERTON,
[From a MS. of Chatterton's in the possession of
Mr. Cottle.]

THE pleasing sweets of spring and summer past,
The falling leaf flies in the sultry blast,
The fields resign their spangling orbs of gold,
The wrinkled grass its silver joys unfold
Mantling the spreading moor in heavenly white,
Meeting from every hill the ravish'd sight.
The yellow flag uprears its spotted head,
Hanging regardant o'er its wat'ry bed:
The worthy knight ascends his foaming steed,
Of size uncommon, and no common breed,

1