A Worthy EXAMPLE of a Vertuous WIFE, who fed her
FATHER with her own Milk, he being commanded by the Emperour to
be Starved to Death, and afterwards pardoned. Tune is, Flying Fame.
Licens'd and Entered according to Order.
|
IN Rome, I read, a Nobleman,
|
the Emperor did offend,
|
And for that fault he was adjudg'd
|
unto a cruel end:
|
That he should be in prison cast,
|
with irons many an one,
|
And there be famish'd 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 Emperor swore a mighty oath,
|
Without remorse, quoth he,
|
They shall sustain the cruelest death
|
that can devised be.
|
This cruel sentenc'd once pronounc'd,
|
the Nobleman was cast
|
Into a dungeon dark and deep,
|
with irons fetter'd fast;
|
Where, when he had with hunger great
|
remained ten days space,
|
And tasted neither meat nor drink,
|
in a most woful case:
|
The tears along his aged face
|
most piteously did fall,
|
And grievously he did begin
|
for to complain withal:
|
O Lord, quoth he, what shall I do,
|
so hungry, Lord, am I,
|
For want of bread, one bit of bread,
|
I perish, starve and die?
|
How precious is one grain of wheat,
|
unto my hungry soul,
|
One crust, or crumb, or little piece,
|
my hunger to controul;
|
Had I this dungeon heap'd with gold,
|
I would forego it all,
|
To buy and purchase one brown loaf,
|
yea, were it ne'er so small.
|
O that I had but every day,
|
one bit of bread to eat,
|
Tho' ne'er 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 Lord, how happy is the hind,
|
that labours all the day,
|
The drudging mule, the Peasant poor,
|
that at command do stay;
|
They have their ordinary meals,
|
they take no heed at all,
|
Of those sweet crumbs & crusts that they
|
do carelessly let fall.
|
How happy is that little chick,
|
that without fear may go
|
And pick up those most precious crumbs
|
which they away do throw:
|
O that some pritty little mouse,
|
so much my friend would be,
|
To bring some old forsaken crust
|
into this place to me.
|
But oh, my heart, it is in vain,
|
no succour can I have,
|
No meat, nor drink, nor water eke,
|
my loathed life to save:
|
O bring some bread for Christ his sake,
|
some bread, some bread for me,
|
I dye, I dye for want of food,
|
none but stone walls I see.
|
Thus day and night he cryed out,
|
in most outragious sort,
|
That all the People far and near
|
was griev'd at his report:
|
And though that many Friends he had,
|
and Daughters in the Town,
|
Yet none durst come to succour him,
|
fearing the Emperor's frown.
|
Yet now behold one Daughter dear
|
he had, as I do find,
|
Who liv'd in his displeasure great,
|
for matching 'gainst his mind;
|
Although she liv'd in mean estate,
|
she was a vertuous Wife,
|
And for to help her Father dear,
|
she ventur'd thus her life:
|
She quickly to her Sisters went,
|
and of them did intreat,
|
That by some secret means, they would
|
convey their Father meat:
|
Our Father dear doth starve, she said,
|
the Emperor's wrath is such,
|
He dyes, alas, for want of food,
|
whereof we have too much.
|
Pray Sisters, therefore use some means
|
his life for to preserve,
|
And suffer not your Father dear,
|
in prison for to starve.
|
Alas, quoth they, what shall we do
|
his hunger to sustain?
|
You know 'tis death for anyone
|
that would his life maintain.
|
And tho' we wish him well, quoth they,
|
we never will agree,
|
To spoil ourselves, we had as leif,
|
that he should die as we;
|
And Sister, if you love yourself,
|
let this attempt alone,
|
Though you do ne'er so secret work,
|
at length it will be known.
|
Oh, hath our Father brought us up,
|
and nourisht us, quoth she,
|
And shall we now forsake him quite,
|
in his extremity;
|
No, I will venture life and limb,
|
to do my Father good;
|
The worst that is, I can but die,
|
to fit a Tyrant's mood.
|
With that, in haste, away she hies,
|
and to the prison goes,
|
But with her woful Father dear,
|
she might not speak, God knows;
|
Except the Emperor would grant
|
her favour in that case,
|
The Keeper would admit no Wight
|
to enter in that place.
|
Then she unto the Emperor 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 judg'd unto a pining death,
|
within a woful place:
|
Which I confess he hath deserv'd,
|
yet mighty Prince, (quoth she,)
|
Vouchsafe in gracious sort, to grant
|
one simple boon to me:
|
It chanced so, I match'd myself
|
against my Father's mind,
|
Whereby I did procure his wrath,
|
as Fortune hath assign'd.
|
And seeing now the time is come,
|
he must resign his breath,
|
Vouchsafe that I may speak to him,
|
before his hour of death:
|
And reconcile myself to him,
|
his favour to obtain,
|
That when he dies, I may not then,
|
under his curse remain.
|
The Emperor granted her request
|
conditionally, that she,
|
Each day unto her Father came,
|
should throwly searched be:
|
No meat nor drink she with her brought,
|
to help him there distrest,
|
But ev'ry day she nourisht him,
|
with milk from her own breast.
|
Thus by her milk he was preserv'd,
|
a twelvemonth and a day,
|
And was as fair and fat to see,
|
yet no Man knew which way:
|
The Emperor musing much thereat,
|
at length did understand
|
How he was fed, and not his law
|
was broke at any hand.
|
And much admired at the same,
|
and her great vertue shown,
|
He pardon'd him, and honour'd her,
|
with great preferments known:
|
Her Father ever after that,
|
did love her as his life,
|
And blest the day that she was made
|
a loving wedded Wife.
|
|
|
|
|
|