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Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
And now for the fame thou needest must dye;
For except thou canft answer me queftions three,
Thy head shall be fmitten from thy bodìe.

And firft, quo' the king, when I'm in this ftead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men fo noble of birthe,
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,

How foone I may ride the whole world about;
And at the third queftion thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet;
But if you will give me but three weekes space,
Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.

Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest time thou haft to live;
For if thou doft not anfwer my questions three,
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.

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Away rode the abbot all fad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;

But never a doctor there was fo wife,

That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then

Then home rode the abbot of comfort fo cold, 45 And he mett his fhepheard a going to fold:

How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home ; What newes do you bring us from good king John ?

"Sad newes, fad newes, fhepheard, I muft give;

That I have but three days more to live:
For if I do not anfwer him queftions three,
My head will be fmitten from my bodie.

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The first is to tell him there in that ftead,

With his crowne of golde fo fair on his head,
Among all his liege men fo noble of birth,

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To within one penny of what he is worth.

The feconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
How foone he may ride this whole world about:
And at the third queftion I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke."

Now cheare up, fire abbot, did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learn a wife man witt?
Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to anfwere your quarrel.

Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none fhall knowe us at fair London towne.

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Now

Now horfes, and ferving-men thou shalt have, With fumptuous array most gallant and brave ; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,

Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope."

Now welcome, fire abbot, the king he did fay,
Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day;
For an if thou canft anfwer my queftions three,
Thy life and thy living both faved shall bee,

And first, when thou seeft me here in this ftead,
With my crown of golde fso fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men fo noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth.

"For thirty pence our Saviour was fold Amonge the falfe Jewes, as I have bin told; And twenty nine is the worth of thee,

For I thinke, thou art one penny worfer than hee,"

The king he laughed, and fwore by St. Bittel *,
I did not think I had been worth fo littel!
-Now fecondly tell me, without any doubt,
How foone I may ride this whole world about.

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"You must rife with the fun, and ride with the fame, Until the next morning he rifeth againe ;

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And

* Meaning probably St. Botolph.

And then your grace need not make any doubt,
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
I did not think, it could be gone fo foone!

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-Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke.

"Yea, that fhall I do, and make your grace merry :
You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury;
But I'm his poor fhepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.”

The king he laughed, and fwore by the maffe,
Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
"Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write, ne reade."

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Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee,

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For this merry jeft thou haft showne unto mee;

And tell the old abbot when thou comeft home,
Thou haft brought him a pardon from good king John.

VII. YOU

VII.

YOU MEANER BEAUTIES.

This little Sonnet was written by Sir HENRY WOTTON Knight, on that amiable Princess, Elizabeth daughter of James I. and wife of the Elector Palatine, who was chofen King of Bohemia, Sept. 5. 1619. The confequences of this fatal · election are well known: Sir Henry Wotton, who in that and the following year was employed in feveral embassies in Germany on behalf of this unfortunate lady, feems to have bad an uncommon attachment to her merit and fortunes, for be gave away a jewel worth a thousand pounds, that was prefented to him by the Emperor," because it came from an enemy to his royal mistress the Queen of Bohemia." See Biog. Britan.

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This fong is printed from the Reliquiæ Wottonianæ 1651. with some corrections from an old MS. copy.

OU meaner beauties of the night,

YOU

Which poorly fatisfie our eies

More by your number, then your light;
You common people of the skies,

What are you when the Sun fhall rife?

, 5

Ye

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