A Worthy example of a Vertuous Wife, who fed
her Father with her own Milk, being condemned to be starved to death,
and afterwards pardoned by the Emperour. The tune is Flying Fame.
|
IN Rome, I read, a Noble man,
|
the Emperour did offend,
|
And for that fact he was adjudgd
|
unto a cruell end.
|
That he should be in Prison cast,
|
with Irons many one,
|
And there be famisht unto death,
|
and brought to skin and bone.
|
And more, if any one were known,
|
by night or yet by day,
|
To bring him any kind of food,
|
his hunger to allay,
|
The Emperour swore a mighty Oath,
|
without remorse quoth he,
|
They should sustain the cruelst death,
|
that could devised be.
|
This cruell sentence once pronouncd
|
the Noble man was cast,
|
Into a Dungeon dark and deep,
|
with Irons fettered fast.
|
Where when he had with hunger great,
|
remained ten dayes space,
|
And neither tasted meat nor drink,
|
in this most wofull case.
|
The teares along his Aged Face,
|
most plentiously did fall,
|
And grievously he did begin,
|
for to complain withall.
|
O Lord quoth he what shall I do,
|
so hungry Lord am I,
|
For want of bread one bit of bread,
|
I famish starve and dye.
|
How precious is on grain of wheat,
|
unto my hungry soul,
|
One crust, one crumb one little peece
|
my hunger to controul.
|
Had I this Dungeon heapd with gold,
|
I would forgo it all,
|
To buy and purchase one brown Loaf,
|
yea were it nere so small.
|
O that I had but every day,
|
one bit of it bread to eat,
|
Though nere so mouldy, black or brown,
|
my comfort would be great.
|
Yea albeit I took it up,
|
trod down in dirt and mire,
|
It would be pleasing to my tast,
|
and sweet to my desire.
|
Good haw happie is the Hind,
|
that labours all the day,
|
The drudging the Peasant poor,
|
that at command doth stay:
|
They have their ordinary meals,
|
they take no heed at all,
|
Of those sweet crumbs and crust that they
|
do careleslie let fall.
|
How happie is the little chick,
|
that without fear may go,
|
And pick up those most precious crumbs,
|
which they away do throw,
|
O that some pretty little mouse,
|
so much my friend would be,
|
To bring some old forsaken crust,
|
into this place to mee.
|
BUT, oh, my heart, it is in vain,
|
no succour can I have,
|
No meat, no drink, nor water eke,
|
my loathed life to save.
|
O bring some bread for Christs his sake,
|
some bread, some bread for me,
|
I dye, I dye for lack of Food,
|
nought but stone walls I see.
|
Thus daie and night he cried out,
|
in most outragious sort,
|
That all the Country far and near,
|
were grievd at his report,
|
And though that manie friends he had,
|
and daughters in the Town,
|
Yet none durst come to succour him,
|
fearing the Emperours frown.
|
Yet now behold one daughter dear,
|
he had as I do find,
|
Who livd in his displeasure great,
|
for matching against his mind.
|
Although he livd in mean estate,
|
she was a virtuous wife;
|
And for to help her Father dear,
|
she ventured thus her life.
|
She quickly to her sisters went,
|
and did of them intreat,
|
That by some secret means they would,
|
convey their Father meat.
|
Our Father deare doth starve she faid,
|
the Emperours wrath is such,
|
He dyes alas for want of Food,
|
whereof we have too much.
|
Sweet sisters therefore use some means,
|
his life for to preserve,
|
And suffer not our Father dear,
|
in prison for to starve.
|
Alas quoth they what shall we do,
|
his hunger to sustain,
|
You know tis death to anie one,
|
that would his life maintain.
|
And though we wish him well quoth they,
|
we never will agree
|
To spoile ourselves, we had as leef,
|
that he should die as we:
|
And sister if you love yourself,
|
let this attempt alone,
|
Though you do nere so secret work,
|
at length it will be known.
|
O hath our Father brought us up,
|
and nourisht us quoth she;
|
And shall we now forsake him quite
|
in his extremitie:
|
No, I will venture life and limb,
|
to do my Father good;
|
The worst that is I can but die,
|
to fit a Tirants mood.
|
With that away in hast she hies,
|
and to the Jaile shee goes,
|
But with her wofull Father dear,
|
she might not speak God knows;
|
Except the Emperour would grant,
|
her favour in that case
|
This keeper would admit no wight,
|
to enter in that place.
|
Then she unto the Emperour hies,
|
and falling on her knee,
|
With wringing hands and bitter tears,
|
these words pronounced she.
|
My hopeless Father gracious Lord,
|
offending of your Grace,
|
Is judgd unto a pining death,
|
within a wofull place.
|
Which I confesse he hath deservd,
|
yet mightie Prince quoth she,
|
Vouchsafe in gracious sort to grant
|
one simple boone to me.
|
It chanced so I matchd myself
|
against my Fathers mind,
|
Whereby I did procure his wrath,
|
ar Fortune hath assignd.
|
And seeing now the time is come,
|
he must resign his breath,
|
Vouchsafe that I may speak with him,
|
before his hour of death,
|
And reconcile myselfe to him,
|
his favour to obtain;
|
That when he dies I may not then
|
under his curse remain.
|
The Emperour granted her request,
|
conditionallie that she,
|
Each time unto her Father came
|
should thorowlie searched be,
|
No bread nor meat she with her brought,
|
to help him there distrest,
|
But every daie she nourishd him,
|
with her most tender breast.
|
Thus by her milk he was preservd
|
a twelve month and a daie,
|
And was most fair and fat to see,
|
yet no man knew which waie,
|
The Emperour musing much thereat
|
at length did understand,
|
How he was fed and yet his Law,
|
not broke at anie hand.
|
And much admiring at the same,
|
and her great vertue shown,
|
He pardond him and honour[]d her,
|
with great preferment known,
|
Her Father ever after that
|
did love her as his life,
|
And blest the time that she was made
|
a loving wedded wife.
|
|
|
|
|
|