by Wyllyam Copland: no date. In the Cotton Library (Calig. A. 2,) is a MS. copy of the same romance containing the greatest variations. They are probably two different translations of some French original.

FARRE in the countrey of Arden,
There won'd a knight, hight Cassemen,
As bolde as Isenbras:

He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabel,
A mayden fayre and free:

And for she was her fathers heire,

Full well she was y-cond the leyre

Of mickle curtesie.

The silke well couth she twist and twine,

And make the fine march-pine,

And with the needle werke:

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And she could helpe the priest to say

His mattins on a holy-day,

And sing a psalme in kirke.

She ware a frock of frolicke greene,

Might well beseeme a mayden queene,

Which seemly was to see;

A hood to that so neat and fine,

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This mayden in a morne betime

Went forth, when May was in her prime,
To get sweete cetywall,

The honey-suckle, the harlocke,
The lilly and the lady-smocke,

To deck her summer hall.

Thus, as she wandred here and there,
Y-picking of the bloomed breere,

She chanced to espie

A shepheard sitting on a bancke,
Like chanteclere he crowed crancke,

And pip'd full merrilie.

He lear'd his sheepe as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feede about him round;
Whilst he full many a carroll sung,
Untill the fields and meadowes rung,
And all the woods did sound.

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In favour this same shepheards swayne
Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,*

Which helde prowd kings in awe :
But meeke he was as lamb mought be:
And innocent of ill as he t

Whom his lewd brother slaw.

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His aule and lingell in a thong,
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,

His breech of coyntrie blewe:

Full crispe and curled were his lockes,
His browes as white as Albion rocks:

So like a lover true,

And pyping still he spent the day,

So merry as the popingay;

Which liked Dowsabel:

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That would she ought, or would she nought, 70
This lad would never from her thought;

She in love-longing fell.

* Alluding to Tamburlaine the Great, or the Scythian Shepheard, 1590, 8vo. an old ranting play ascribed to Marlowe.

+ Sc. Abel.

At length she tucked up her frocke,
White as a lilly was her smocke,

She drew the shepheard nye;
But then the shepheard pyp'd a good,

That all his sheepe forsooke their foode,
To heare his melodye.

Thy sheepe, quoth she, cannot be leane,

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That have a jolly shepheards swayne,

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The which can pipe so well:

Yea but, sayth he, their shepheard may,

If pyping thus he pine away,

In love of Dowsabel.

Of love, fond boy, take thou no keepe,

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Quoth she; looke thou unto thy sheepe,

Lest they should hap to stray.

Quoth he, So had I done full well,

Had I not seen fayre Dowsabell

Come forth to gather maye.

With that she gan to vaile her head,
Her cheeks were like the roses red,

But not a word she sayd:

With that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
And on the ground him layd.

Sayth she, I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer-hall undight,

And all for long of thee.

My coate, sayth he, nor yet my foulde

Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,

Except thou favour mee.

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With that she bent her snow-white knee,

Downe by the shepheard kneeled shee,

And him she sweetely kist:

With that the shepheard whoop'd for joy,
Quoth he, Ther's never shepheards boy

That ever was so blist.

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