Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne
Elizabethan MiscellaniesFrom The Arbor of Amorous Devises: A Sweet Lullaby (Anonymous)
C
Thy father’s shame, thy mother’s grief,
Born as I doubt to all our dole,
And to thyself unhappy chief:
Sing lullaby and lap it warm,
Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
The cause of this thy mother’s moan;
Thou want’st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all alone;
Why dost thou weep, why dost thou wail,
And know’st not yet what thou dost ail?
Mine only joy; what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart
That may the destinies implore;
’Twas I, I say, against my will;
I wail the time, but be thou still.
Would God himself he might thee see!
No doubt thou soon wouldst purchase grace,
I know right well, for thee and me.
But come to mother, babe, and play;
For father false is fled away.
Thy father home again to send,
If death do strike me with his lance,
Yet mayst thou me to him commend;
If any ask thy mother’s name,
Tell how by love she purchased blame.
I know him of a noble mind;
Although a lion in the field
A lamb in turn thou shalt him find;
Ask blessing, babe! be not afraid;
His sugared words have me betrayed.
Although in woe I seem to moan;
Thy father is no rascal lad,
A noble youth of blood and bone;
His glancing looks, if once he smile,
Right honest women may beguile.
Sing lullaby and be thou still;
I that can do nought else but weep
Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
God bless my babe, and lullaby
From this thy father’s quality!