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by ddyllyam 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 :
Fell was he, and eger bent,
In battell and in tournament,

As was the good Sir Topas.


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:
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,

In colour like the colombine,

Y-wrought full featously.


Her features all as fresh above,
As is the



growes by Dove;
And lyth as lasse of Kent.
Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on Peakish Hull,

Or swanne that swims in Trent.


This mayden in a more 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.


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 het

Whom his lewd brother slaw.


The shepheard ware a sheepe-gray cloke,
Which was of the finest loke,

That could be cut with sheere :
His mittens were of bauzens skinne,
His cockers were of cordiwin,

His hood of meniveere,


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 :
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,
That have a jolly shepheards swayne,

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,
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.


Sayth she, Yet lever were I dead,
Then I should lose my mayden-head,

And all for love of men.
Sayth he, Yet are you too unkind,
If in
your heart

you cannot finde To love us now and then.


And I to thee will be as kinde
As Colin was to Rosalinde,

Of curtesie the flower.
Then will I be as true, quoth she,
As ever mayden yet might be

Unto her paramour.


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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