Royall Dorastus, and his Queen,
Without all kind of strife,

Of both the lands receiv'd the crown,
After Egestus life.

Judge all now of Bohemia's joy,
How every one did sing:

A joyful noise in every place,
Through all the land did ring.

XLIX.

DEATH OF IFFIDA.

From "The Romance of the History of Palmendos, son to the most renowned Palmerin d'Oliva.” 1653.

"The mother and her daughter ran furiously on Palmendos, labouring to do him what injury they could: but he (unwilling to hurt them), suffered their violence, till Ozalioe's squire seeing their impatience, and fearing with their knives they would in the end murder him, took up one of the guards hatchets, and therewith deprived the mother of her life.

"Iffida extremely raging at this grievous spectacle, rent her hair from her head, and with her nails, most cruelly martyred her face; then being suddenly surprised with a raging apoplexy, she presently died without using any more speeches. The Page grieving to behold this woeful accident, determined not to live any longer after her; but first upon the wall he wrote certain dolorous verses, which afterward were converted to a funeral ditty, in this

manner :"

DEAD is the bud of beauty's chief delight,
The fairest flower on whom the sun did shine,
The choice belov'd of many a famous knight,
The pride of honour, precious and divine;
The lovely maid of whom the nymphs did sing,
thing.

That nature never fram'd so rare a

228

Had Paris seen this wondrous piece of art,
Proud Venus had not carried beauty's prize,
Pallas and Juno would have stood apart,
To see their gifts one virgin royalize :
In every point surpassing curious,
Had fate and fortune been as gracious.

Ungentle star, that domineer'd the day,
When first my lady mistress breath'd this air,
What angry object stood then in the way,
To cross the course that was begun so fair!
You lowring heavens, why did ye oppress
The saint whom you so many ways did bless!

But, wretch! why stand'st thou charging these with guilt,
And art thyself the author of this ill?

Thou hapless boy thy lady's blood hast spilt,

Thy master and his servants thou didst kill.

When first thou travell'dst for this trothless man,
Even in that hour these miseries began.

But, sovereign Love, immortal and divine,
Whose gracious name did shadow this abuse,
Canst thou permit before thy holy eyn,
This heinous deed exempt from all excuse?
O mighty Love, what will thy subjects say,
If foul offence go unrevenged away?

Stand I expostulating this or that,

When on my back the weighty burthen lies;
Waste no more time with vain and idle chat,

But for this fault be thou a sacrifice.

Fair Iffida, thy page doth follow thee,
The only engine of this tragedy,

L.

ROSSALIND'S DITTY.

From "The Famous Historie of the Seaven Champions of Christendome."

“During which time faire Rossalinde (one of the daughters of the Thracian King, being as then prisoner in the Castle) by chance looked over the walls, and espyed the body of the Gyant headlesse, under whose subjection shee had continued in great servitude for the time of seaven moneths, likewise by him a knight unarmed, as shee thought panting for breath, the which the lady judged to be the knight that had slaine the Gyant Blanderon, and the nan by whom her delivery should be recovered, shee presently descended the walles of the castle, and ran with all speed to the adventurous champion, whom shee found dead. But yet being nothing discouraged of his recovery, feeling as yet a warme bloud in every member, retired back with all speede to the castle, and fetcht a boxe of precious balme, the which the

Gyant was wont to poure into his wounds after his encounter with any Knight: with which balme this courteous lady chafed every part of the breathlesse champion's bodie, one while washing his stiffe lims with her salt teares the which like pearles fell from her eyes, another while drying them with the tresses of her golden hayre, which hung dangling in the winde, then chafing his livelesse body againe with a balme of a contrary nature, but yet no signe of life could shee espie in the dead Knight: which caused her to grow desperate of all hope of his recoverie. Therefore like a loving, meeke, and kinde ladie, considering he had lost his life for her sake, shee intended to beare him company in death, and with her owne hands to finish up her dayes, and to dye upon his breast as Thisbe died upon the brest of her true Pyramus; therefore as the swanne sings a while before her death, so this sorrowful lady warbled forth this swan-like song over the bodie of the noble champion."

MUSES come mourn with doleful melody,
Kind Sylvan Nymphs that sit in rosy bowers,
With bracking tears commix your harmony
To wail with me both minutes, days, and hours.
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.

Dead is the Knight for whom I live and die,
Dead is the Knight which for my sake is slain,
Dead is the Knight for whom my careful cry,
With wounded soul for ever shall complain,
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.