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And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think."
"O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
"Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
"Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;
"The first is to tell him there in that stead,
"The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
"Nay frowne not, if it hath been told unto mee,
There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne."
"Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,
PART THE SECOND.
"Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, ""Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both savèd shall bee.
"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told:
For at least, thou art one penny worse than Hee."
The king he laughed, and vowed by St. Bittel,
"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth againe;
And then your grace need not to make any doubt, But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The king he laughed, and vowed by St. Jone, "I did not think, it could be gone so soone!" "Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke."
"Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
The king he laughed, and vowed by the masse,
"Four nobles a week, then will I give to thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from merry King John."
The Chatsworth Outlaw.
THE sun had risen above the mist,
"Alas!" sung one, " for Chatsworth oaks,
"How fair they stand amid their green land, The sock or share ne'er pain'd them;
Not a bough or leaf have been shred from their strength,
Nor the woodman's axe profaned them."
"Green," sung another, "were they that hour
When Scotland's loveliest woman',
And saddest queen, in the sweet twilight,
1 Mary Queen of Scots.
"And ever the Derwent lilies her tears
In their silver tops were catching,
As she look'd to the cold and faithless north, Till her eyes wax'd dim with watching."
"Be mute now," the third forester said,
Loud laugh'd the forester fourth, and sung,
On the banks of Dove there dwells my love, A beauteous and a rare one."
"Now cease your singing," the fifth one said, "And choose of shafts the longest, And seek the bucks on Chatsworth chase, Where the lady-bracken's strongest.
66 Let every bow be strung, and smite
Lord Devonshire will taste our cheer,
"String them with speed," the sixth man said, "For low down in the forest
There runs a deer I long to smite,
With bitter shafts the sorest.
"The bucks bound blythe on Chatsworth lea,