Fair MAUDLIN,
The Merchant's Daughter of BRISTOL.
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BEHOLD the touchstone of true love,
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Maudlin the merchant's daughter of Bristol-town
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Whose firm affection nothing could move;
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Her favour bears the lovely brown.
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A gallant youth was dwelling by,
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Who long had bore this maiden great good will,
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She loved him most faithfully,
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But all her friends withstood it still.
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The young man now perceiving well,
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He could not get the favour of her friends,
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The force of sorrow to expel
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And view strange countries he intends.
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And now to take his last farewell
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Of his true love, his fair and constant Maudlin,
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With musick sweet that did excel
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He play'd under her window then,
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Farewel, quoth he, my own true love,
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Farewel, the dear and chiefest treasure of my heart,
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Tho' Fortune's spite, that false did prove,
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I am enforc'd from thee to part.
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Into the land of fair Italy,
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There will I travel and weary out my life in woe.
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Seeing my true love is kept from me,
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I hold my life a mortal foe.
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Fair Bristol town, therefore adieu,
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For Padua shall be my habitation now,
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Altho' my love dost rest in you,
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To whom alone my heart I vow.
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With trickling tears thus did he sing,
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Sighs and sobs descending from his heart full sore.
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He said, when he his hands did wring,
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Farewel, sweet love, for everm[o]re.
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Fair Maudlin from a window high,
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She heard her true love with music where he stood,
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But not a word she did reply,
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Fearing her parents angry mood.
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In tears she spent that woeful night,
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Wishing herself, tho' naked, with her friend;
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She blames he[r] friends, and fortune's spight.
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That wrought her love such luckless end.
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And in her heart she made a vow,
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To forsake her c[o]untry and ki[n]dred all,
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And for to follow her true love,
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To abide all chance that might befal.
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The night is gone, and the day is come,
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And in the morning very early she did arise,
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She get her down into a lower room,
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Where sundry seaman she espies.
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A gallant master among them all,
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The master of a great and goodly ship was he,
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Who there were waiting in the hall,
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To speak with her father, if it might be.
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She kindly takes him by the hand,
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Good s[i]r said she, would you speak with any here?
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Quoth he, Fair maid, and therefo[r]e do I stand.
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Then gentle sir, I pray draw near.
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Into a pleasant parlour by,
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Hanh in hand she brings the seaman all alone,
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Sighing to him most pitiously,
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She thus to him did make her moan:
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She fel[l] upon her bended knee,
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[Good sir,] said she, pity a woman's woe.
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And prove a faithful friend to me.
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That I to you my griei may show.
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Sith you repose your trust, he said,
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In me unknown, and eke a stranger here.
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Be you assur'd, most beautious maid,
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Most faithful still I will appear.
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I have a brother, then quoth she,
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Whom as my life I love, and favour tenderly.
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In Padua, alas! is he,
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Full sick, God wot, and like to die
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Full fain I would my brother see,
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But that my father will no yeild to let me go.
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Therefore, kind sir, be kind to me,
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And unto me this favour show.
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Some ship-boy's garment bring to me,
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That I disguis'd may go unknown,
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And unto sea I'll go with thee,
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If so much favour might be shown.
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Fair maid, quo[t]h he, take here my hand,
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I will fulfil each thing that you desire.
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And see you safe in that same land,
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And in the place that you require.
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She gave to him a tender kiss,
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And said, Your servant, master, I will be.
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And prove your faithful friend for this;
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Sweet, then forget not me.
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This done, as they had both agreed,
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Soon after that, by break of day,
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He brings her garments then with speed,
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Therein herself she did array
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And e'er her father did arise,
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She meets her master as he walked in the hall.
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She did attend on him likewise,
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Until her father did him call.
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But here the merchant made and end.
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Of those his weighty matters all that day,
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His wife came weeping in with speed,
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Saying our daughter's gone away.
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The merchant then amaz'd in mind.
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Yonder vile wretch entic'd our child away.
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But I well wot, I shall him find,
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In Italy, ot Padua.
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With that bespoke the master brave,
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Worshipful merchant, thither goes this youth.
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And any thing that you would have,
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He wil perform, and write the truth.
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Sweet youth, quoth he, if it be so,
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Bear me a letter to the English there,
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And gold on thee I will bestow:
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My daughter's welfare I do fear.
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Her mother took her by the hand.
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Fair youth, if e'er thou dost my daughter see,
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Let me soon thereof understand,
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And there is twenty crowns for thee
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Thus thro' the daughter's strange disguise
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Her mother knew not when she spoke unto her child.
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Then after her master strait she hies,
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Taking her leave with countenance mild.
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Thus to the sea Sweet Maudlin is gone,
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With her gentle master; God send fair wind!
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Where we awile must leave them all alone,
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you the second part do find.
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PART II.
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WELCOME, sweet Maudlin, from the sea
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Where bitter storms and tempests do arise
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The pleasant banks of Italy
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You may behold with mortal eyes.
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Thanks, gentle master, then said she,
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A faithful friend in sorrow thou hast been:
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If fortune once do fall on me,
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My gratitude shall soon be seen.
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Blest be the land that feeds my love,
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Blest be the place wherein he doth abide,
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No trial will I stick to prove,
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Whereby my true love may be try'd.
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Now will I walk with joyful heart,
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To view the town wherein he doth remain.
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And seek him out in every part,
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Until his fight I do obtain.
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And I, quoth he, will not forsake
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Sweet Maudlin in her sorrows --- Up and down,
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In wealth or woe thy part I'll take,
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And bring thee safe to Padua town.
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And after many weary steps!
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In Padua they arriv'd at last:
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For very joy her heart it leaps,
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She thinks not on her sorrows past.
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Condemned he was to die alas!
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Except he would from his religion turn,
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But rather than he would to mass,
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In firey flames he chose to burn.
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Now doth sweet Naudlin weep and wail.
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Her joy is turn'd to sorrow, grief, and care.
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For nothing could her plaints prevail,
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For death alone must be his share.
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She walks under the prison walls
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Where her true love did languish in distress.
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Then woefully for food he calls,
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When hunger did hls heaart oppress.
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He sighs and sobs and makes great moan,
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Farewell, Sweet heart, he cry'd, for evermore,
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And all my friends that I have known,
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In Bristol town with wealth and store.
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For most of all, farewell, quoth he,
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My own sweet Maudlin, whom I left behind.
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For never more thou wilt me see,
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Woe to thy father most unkind.
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How well I were if thou wert here,
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With thy fair hands to close my wretched eyes,
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My torments easy would appear,
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My soul with joy would scale the skies.
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When Maudlin heard her lovers moan,
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Her eyes with tears, her heart soon filled was,
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To speak with him no means was found,
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Such grievous doom did on him pass.
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Then she put off her lads attire.
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Her maiden-weeds upon her seemly set.
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At the judge's house she did enquire,
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And there she did a service get,
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She did her service there so well,
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And eke so well herself she did behave,
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With her in love her master fell,
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His servant's favour he doth crave.
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Maudlin, quoth he, my heart's delight,
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To whom my soul is so inclin'd.
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Breed not my death, thro' thy dispright;
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A faithful friend thou shalt me find.
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Grant me thy love, fair maid, quoth he,
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And then desire what thou canst devise,
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And I will grant it unto thee,
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Whereby thy credit may arise.
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I have a brother, sir, she said,
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For his religion is condemned to die,
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In loathsome prison he is laid,
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Oppress'd with grief and misery.
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Grant me my brother's life, she said,
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And now to you my love and liking I will give
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That may not be, quoth he, fair maid;
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Unless he turn he cannot live.
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An English friar, there is, she said,
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Of learning great, and passing pure of life,
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Let him to my brother be sent,
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And he will finish soon the strife.
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Her master granted her request,
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The marriner in friar's weeds she did array,
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And to her love that lay distrest,
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She did a letter soon convey.
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When he had read these gentle lines,
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His heart was ravish'd with pleasant joy:
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Where now he is full well he knew;
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The friar likewise was not coy.
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But did declare to him at large
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The enterprize his love had taken in hand
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The young man did the friar charge
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His love should strait depart the land.
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Here is no place for her, he said,
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But wooful death and danger of her life.
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Professing truth I was betray'd,
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And fearful flames must end the strife.
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For ere I will my faith deny,
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And swear myself to follow damn'd Antichrist,
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I'll yield my body for to die,
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To live in heaven with the highest.
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Oh! sir, the gentle friar said,
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Consent thereto, and end the strife.
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A woeful match is made, quoth he.
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Where Christ is left to gain a wife.
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When she had us'd all means she might,
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To save his life, yet it would not be;
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Then of the judge she claim'd her r[i]ght,
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To die the death as well sshe.
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When no persuasion could prevail,
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To change her mind in anything she said,
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She with him was condemned to d[i]e,
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And for them both one fire was made.
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Yet, arm in arm most joyfully
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These lovers twain unto the fire did go.
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The marriner most faithfully
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Was likewise partner of their woe.
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But when the judges understood
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That faithful friendship did in them remain,
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They sav'd their lives, and afterwards
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To England sent them back again.
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Now was their sorrow turn'd to joy,
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And faithful lovers have their hearts desire.
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Their pain so well they did employ,
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God granted that they did desire.
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And when they did to England come,
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And in merry Bristol arriv'd at last,
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Great joy there was to all and some,
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They heard the dangers they had past.
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Her father he was dead, God wot,
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And her old mother was joyful at her sight.
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Their wishes she denied not,
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But wedded them to their [h]eart's deligh,
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Her gentle master he desired,
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To be her father, and at church to give her then
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It was fulfilled as she required,
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To the joy of all good men.
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