THE Lady ISABELLA's Tragedy;
Or, The Step Mother's Cruelty.
|
THere was a Lord of worthy fame,
|
And a hunting he would ride,
|
Attended with a noble train
|
Of Gentry by his side;
|
And whilst he did in chace remain,
|
To see both sport and play,
|
His Lady went as she did feign
|
Unto the church to pray.
|
The Lord he had a daughter fair,
|
Whose beauty shone so bright,
|
She was belov'd both far and near,
|
By many Lord and Knight:
|
Fair Isabella she was call'd,
|
A creature fair was she,
|
She was her father's only Joy,
|
As after you shall see:
|
But her cruel Step Mother,
|
Did envy her so much,
|
That day by day she sought her life,
|
Her malice it was such.
|
She bargain'd with the Master Cook
|
To take her life away,
|
And calling of her daughter dear,
|
She thus to her did say:
|
Go home sweet daughter I thee pray,
|
Go hasten presently,
|
And tell unto the Master Cook
|
These words that I tell thee.
|
Go bid him dress for dinner strait,
|
The fair and milk-white doe,
|
Which in the Park do shine so bright,
|
There's none so fair a show.
|
The Lady fearing of no harm,
|
Obey'd her Mother's will,
|
And presently she hasted home,
|
Her mind for to fulfill.
|
She strait into the kitchen went,
|
Her message for to tell,
|
And there she spy'd the Master Cook,
|
Who did with malice swell:
|
Now Master Cook it must be so,
|
Do that which I thee tell;
|
You needs must dress the milk white doe,
|
And that you know full well.
|
Then strait his bloody cruel hands
|
He on the Lady laid,
|
Who quivering and shaking stands,
|
Whilst thus to her he said,
|
Thou art the doe that I must dress,
|
See here behold my knife,
|
For it is pointed presently
|
To rid thee of thy life.
|
O then cries out the scullion boy,
|
As loud as loud might be,
|
O save her life good master cook,
|
And make your pies of me:
|
For heavens sake do not murder
|
My mistress with that knife:
|
You know she is her father's Joy,
|
For Christ's sake save her life:
|
I will not save her life said he,
|
Nor make my pies of thee,
|
And if you do this deed betray,
|
Thy butcher I will be.
|
Now when this Lord he did come home.
|
For to set down to eat,
|
He called for his daughter dear,
|
To come and carve his meat,
|
Into some nunery she is gone,
|
Your daughter now forgot;
|
Then solemnly he made a vow,
|
Before the company,
|
That he would neither eat nor drink,
|
Before he did her see.
|
O then bespoke the skullion boy,
|
With a voice both loud and high,
|
If that you would your daughter see,
|
Good sir, cut up the pye;
|
Wherein her flesh is minced small,
|
And parched with the fire,
|
All caused by her Step Mother,
|
Who did her death desire.
|
And cursed be the Master Cook,
|
O cursed may he be,
|
I proffered him my own heart's blood,
|
From death to set her free.
|
Then all in black this Lord did mourn,
|
And for his daughter's sake,
|
He judg'd the cruel Step Mother,
|
For to be burnt at stake.
|
Likewise he judg'd the Master Cook
|
In boiling oil to stand,
|
And made the simple scullion boy,
|
The heir to all his land.
|
NOW when the wicked Master Cook
|
Beheld his death draw near,
|
And that by friends he was forsook,
|
He pour'd forth many a tear,
|
Saying, The Lady whom I serv'd,
|
Prompted me to this deed,
|
And as a death I have deserv'd,
|
coming on with speed.
|
I must confess these hands of mine,
|
Did kill the innocent,
|
When her dear breath she did resign,
|
My heart did not relent.
|
This said, into the boiling oil,
|
He then forthwith was cast,
|
And then within a little time
|
The mother went at last
|
From prison to the burning stake,
|
And as she past along,
|
She did sad lamentation make
|
Unto the numerous throng.
|
These were the self-same words she said
|
The daughter of my Lord,
|
I doom'd to death, the laws I broke,
|
And shall have my reward.
|
Then to the burning stake they ty'd
|
The worst of all Step-Dames,
|
And then according to the Law,
|
She fairly dy'd in flames.
|
Now let th[e]ir deaths a warning be,
|
To all that hear this Song,
|
And thus I end my Tragedy,
|
The Duke he mourned long.
|
|
|
|
|
|