Bristowe Tragedie: Or The Dethe Of Syr Charles Badwin

The featherd songster chaunticleer

Han wounde hys bugle horne,

And tolde the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne.

Kynge EDWARDE sawe the ruddie streakes

Of lyghte eclypse the greie;

And herde the raven’s crokynge throte

Proclayme the fated daie.

“Thou’rt right”’ quod hee, “for, by the Godde

That syttes enthron’d on hyghe!

CHARLES BAWDIN, and hys fellowes twain,

To-daie shall surelie die.

Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale

Hys Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;

Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie

Hee leaves thys mortall state”.

Syr CANTERLONE thenne bendedd low;

Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;

Hee journey’d to the castle-gate,

And to Syr CHARLES dydd goe.

Butt whenne hee came, hys children twaine,

And eke hys lovynge wyfe,

Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,

For goode Syr CHARLESES lyfe.

“O goode Syr CHARLES!”, sayd CANTERLONE,

“Badde tydyngs I doe brynge”.

“’Speke boldlie, manne”, sayd brave Syr CHARLES,

“Whatte says thie traytor kynge?”

“I greeve to telle, before yonne sonne

Does fromme the welkinn flye,

Hee hath uponne hys honour sworne,

Thatt thou thalt surelie die”.

“Wee all must die”, quod brave Syr CHARLES;

“Of thatte I’m not affearde;

Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?

Thanke JESU, I’m prepar’d.

Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee’s not,

I’de sooner die to-daie

’Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,

Tho’ I shoulde lyve for aie”.

Thenne CANTERLONE hee dydd goe out,

To telle the maior straite

To gett all thynges ynne reddyness

For goode Syr CHARLESES fate.

Thenne Maisterr CANYNGE saughte the kynge,

And felle down onne hys knee;

“I’m come”, quod hee, “unto your grace

To move your clemencye”.

Thenne quod the kynge, ’Youre tale speke out,

“You have been much oure friende;

Whatever youre request may bee,

’Wee wylle to ytte attende”.

“My nobile leige! alle my request

Ys for a nobile knyghte,

Who, tho’ may hap hee has donne wronge,

He thoghte ytte stylle was ryghte.

Hee has a spouse and children twaine,

Alle rewyn’d are for aie;

Yff thatt you are resolv’d to lett

CHARLES BAWDIN die to-daie”.

“Speke nott of such a traytour vile”,

The kynge ynne furie sayde;

“’Before the evening starre doth sheene,

BAWDIN shall loose hys hedde.

Justice does loudlie for hym calle,

And hee shalle have hys meede:

Speke, Maister CANYNGE! Whatte thynge else

Att present doe you neede?”

“My nobile leige!” goode CANYNGE sayde,

“Leave justice to our Godde,

And laye the yronne rule asyde;

Be thyne the olyve rodde.

Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines,

The best were synners grete;

CHRIST’S vycarr only knowes ne synne,

Ynne alle thys mortall state.

Lett mercie rule thyne infante reign;

Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;

From race to race thy familie

Alle sov’reigns shall endure.

But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou

Beginne thy infante reign;

Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows

Wylle never long remayne”.

“CANYNGE, awaie! thys traytour vile

Has scorn’’d my power and mee;

Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne

’Intreate my clemencye?”

“My nobile leige! the trulie brave

Wylle val’rous actions prize,

Respect a brave and nobile mynde,

Altho’ ynne enemies”.

“CANYNGE, awale! By Godde ynne Heav’n

Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,

I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade