Hire cote armure is duskyd reed,
With a boordure as blak as sabyl,
A pavys or a terget for a sperys heed,
Wyde as a chirche that hath a gabyl;
For who shalle justyn in that stabyl,
But he be shodde he is not sene,
Litel Morelle were not abyl,

Whan she hath on hire hood of grene.

Hire cote armure though it be rcnte,
Yit hernyd she nevir the bak,
Though many a robe hath be shente

On hire sarpelere and on hire sak;
Evir moore she stood for al the wrak,
And for shot she lyst not to fleen,
A castyng dart took no tak,

Undir hire daggyd hood of green.

Now fareweel hert and have good dey, Of yow me lyst nat moore to endight, Colowryd lyche a rotyn eey,

In morwe among your pylwys whight; The blak crowe moote yow byght,

Your byl clothyd thirke and on clene, A froward velym upon to wryt,

Whan she hath on hire hood of grene.

Now fareweel fayr and fressh so cleer! For whoom I may noo mone take, Thowh I se yow not of alle this yeere, I can not moorne for your sake,

Tyl every foul chesyth hys make,

And the nytynggale that syngeth so sheen, And that the cokkow me awake,

To looke upon your hood of green.

A PRAYER TO ST. LEONARD, MADE AT YORK. [From MS. Harl. 2255, fol. 114.]

RESTE and refuge to folk disconsolat,

Fadir of pité and consolacioun, Callyd recoumfort to folk desolat,

Sovereyn socour in tribulacioun,

Vertuous visitour to folkys in prisoun,
Blissid Leonard! graunt of thy goodnesse,

To

pray Jhesu with hool affectioun,

To save thy servauntis fro myscheef and distresse.

Remembre on hem that lyn in cheynes bounde,
On folk exiled ferre from ther contré,

On swych as lyn with many grevous wounde
Fetryd in prisoun and have no liberté ;
Forgete hem nouhte that pleyne in poverté,

For thrust and hungir constreyned with siknesse ;

Pray to Jhesu of merciful pité,

To save alle tho that calle the in distresse.

Lat thy prayeer and thy grace availle,

To alle tho that calle the in ther neede,

And specially to women that travaille,

To ache of boonys and goutys that do spreede;

Helpe staunche veynes which cesse nat to bleede,
Help feverous folk that tremble in ther accesse,
And have in mynde of mercy and tak heede,
To pray for alle that calle the in distresse.

Sobre and appeese suche folk as falle in furye,
To trist and hevy do mytigacioun,

Suche as be pensyff make hem glad and murye,
Distrauhte in thouhte refourme hem to resoun;
Releeve the porail fro fals oppressioun

Of tyrannye, and extort brotilnesse,

Take hem of mercy in thy proteccioun,

And save thy servauntis fro myscheef and distresse.

Thes signes groundid on parfite charité,
In thy persone encresyng ay by grace,
O glorious Leonard! pray Jhesu on thy kne,
For thy servauntis resortyng to this place,
That they may have leyseer, tyme, and space,

Al cold surfetys to refourme and redresse,
Hosyl and shriffte, or they hens pace,

With the to regne in eternal gladnesse.

Merciful Leonard! gracious and benigne !
Shew to thy servauntis som palpable sygne,
Passyng this vale of wordly wrecehydnesse,
With the to regne in eternal gladnesse,
Ther to be fed with celestial manna,

Wher angelis ar wont to syngen Osanna!

THE DESERTS OF THEEVISH MILLERS AND

BAKERS.

THESE curious stanzas are taken from MS. Harl. 2255, fol. 157; but the ditty is unfortunately imperfect at the commencement. Sir Harris Nicolas has printed them at the end of his "Chronicle of London."

PUT out his hed lyst nat for to dare,

But lyk a man upon that tour to abyde, For cast of eggys wil not oonys spare,

Tyl he be quaylled, body, bak, and syde; His heed endooryd, and of verray pryde,

Put out his armys, shewith abrood his face, The fenestrallys be made for hym so wyde, Clemyth to been a capteyn of that place.

The bastyle longith of verray dewe ryght,--
To fals bakerys it is trewe herytage,
Severelle to them, this knoweth every wyght,

Be kynde assyngned for ther sittyng stage,
Wheer they may freely shewe out ther visage,
Whan they take oonys there possessioun,
Owthir in youthe, or in myddyl age;

Men doon hem wrong, yif they take hym doun.

Let mellerys and bakerys gadre hem a gilde,
And alle of assent make a fraternité,
Undir the pillory a litil chapelle bylde,
The place amorteyse, and purchase liberté;

For alle thoo that of ther noumbre be,
What evir it coost aftir that they wende,

They may cleyme be just auctorité,

Upon that bastile to make an ende.

72

MEASURE IS TREASURE.

[From MS. Harl. 2255, fol. 143-146.]

MEN wryte of oold how mesour is tresour,
And of al grace ground moost principalle,
Of vertuous lyfe suppoort and eek favour,
Mesour conveyeth and governith alle,—
Trewe examplayr and orygynalle,

To estaatys of hyhe and lowe degree,
In ther dewe ordre, for, in especialle,
Alle thyng is weel so it in mesure be.

Mesure is roote of al good policye,
Sustir-germayn unto discrecioun,

Of poopys, prelatys, it beryth up the partye,
Them to conduce in hyhe perfeccioun,

To leve in preyour and in devocioun,
Yeve good exaumple of pees and unité,
That al ther werkys, for shoort conclusioun,
With trewe mesure may commendid be.

Al theyr doctryne, nor alle ther hoolynesse,
Kunnyng, language, wisdam, nor science,
Studye on bookys, in prechyng besynesse,

Almesse dede, fastyng, nor abstinence;
Clothe the nakyd with cost and dispence,

Rekne alle these vertues, compassioun, and pité,

Avayllith nought, pleynly in sentence,

But there be mesure and parfight charité.