his hand he bore.

“Thou dog, thou shalt never more have the might
The gentle daughters of Kings to smite.

“Thou dog, thou shalt never more have the power
To threaten Kings’ children within thy bower.”

The Count by his long yellow locks he took,
And by the bed’s side his head off strook.

“Do thou lie there, and for ever be banned,
I’ll bestow on another my sister’s hand.

“I’ll give her Sir Allegast, he is a knight
So true and trusty and valiant in fight.”

The King’s sweet daughter has Allegast wed,
For her infamous husband unwept lies dead.

These gallants were thieves in no other way,
Than that they a trick on the Count would play.

But could all thieving come to so fair an end,
There’s many, I trow, would a-thieving wend!

EPIGRAMS

1

Assume a friend’s face when a foeman you spy,
For his hatred you’ll turn into friendship thereby.
Deal gentle words round you when threats are outpoured,
For not against silk do we use the sharp sword.
By means of caresses and promises fair,
The elephant fierce you may guide with a hair.

2

The lion in woods finds prey of noble kind,
   In fields of air the hawk sufficient meat;
He who would hunt within a house confined,
   Must needs possess the spider’s hands and feet.

3

Though God provides our daily bread
   Yet all must seek that bread, I ween;
Though all must die, there is no need
   To rush the dragon’s jaws between.

4

To trust a man I never feel inclined,
Unless I know his very inmost mind;
Better an open foe your flesh should rend,
Than you should deem a secret foe your friend.

5

A hunter who was always seeking game
In evil hour upon a tiger came;
Chance to the hunter is not always kind,
Instead of game he may a tiger find.

6

The plans of men of shrewdest wit
   To fail are known,
Whilst beardless lads the mark will hit
   By chance alone.

7

Well was it said, long years ago,
Never trust him whom you’ve given a blow;
Trust not the heart you have caused to ache,
For thine, if it can, it will surely break.
Fling not a stone at the wall of a town,
Lest one from the rampart should strike you down.

8

Who roams the world by many wants beset,
Is quickly glad his own name to forget;
Unless you’ve gold you cannot do much harm,
And if you’ve gold you need no other arm.
Gold if you lack you cannot cross the brine;
Better than ten men’s strength is one man’s coin.

ON A YOUNG MAN WITH RED HAIR

He is a lad of sober mind,
By no means martially inclined;
Nor fit to bear war’s dreadful shocks,
Although he carries fire-locks.

* * * * *

London:
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.

Edition limited to Thirty Copies.

Footnotes:

[13a]  Britain.