English

Joch. I've almost reach'd the place — with cautions steps
I must approach the spot where he is laid,
Lest from the royal gardens any 'spy me.
— Poor babe! ere this, the pressing calls of hunger
Have broke thy short repose; the chilling waves,
Ere this, have drench'd thy little shiv'ring limbs.
What must my babe have suffer'd! — No one sees me!
But soft, does no one listen? — Ah! how hard,
How very hard for fondness to be prudent!
Now is the moment to embrace and feed him.

Mir. Yes, I have laid him in his watery bed,
His watery grave, I fear! — I tremble still;
It was a cruel task — still I must weep!
But, ah, my mother! who shall soothe thy griefs?
The flags and sea-weeds will awhile sustain
Their precious load; but it must sink ere long!
Sweet babe, farewell! Yet think not I will leave thee;
No, I will watch thee till the greedy waves
Devour thy little bark: I'll sit me down,
And sing to thee, sweet babe; thou canst not hear;
But 'twill amuse me, while I watch thy fate.

J OCHERED , M IRIAM .

Joch. Why was my prayer accepted? why did Heaven
In anger hear me, when I ask'd a son?
Ye dames of Egypt! ye triumphant mothers!
You no imperial tyrant marks for ruin;
You are not doom'd to see the babes you bore,
The babes you fondly nurture, bleed before you!
You taste the transports of a mother's love,
Without a mother's anguish! wretched Israel!
Can I forbear to mourn the different lot
Of thy sad daughters! — Why did God's own hand

The .vii. sorowe.

This laste sorow, yf any sorow be
Is so the wydow of her charite
Now must perfourme her husbandes intent
Touching his wyll, his mynde and testament
And so she doth, as nygh as she can
So that no where ther is any man
That can demaunde of ryght and duty
But she them pleaseth well and honestly
So that her name is so wel spredde
That many delyteth her for to wedde
Wouers com with many a proude offre
Some with loue, and other som with proffre
Som come gayly, and all in pleasure

The syxte sorowe

Now hath thys wydow, thanked be Iesu
Performed the burying, as to her is due
Sadly and wysely me nede not to tell
She hath behaued her ther in so well
That I dare sweare if it chaunce her a gayne
She can it do with lesse coste and payne
But for all that she is to hym so kynde
That she wyl not forget his monethes minde
Nor his anniuersary at the yeres ende
She doth so well that eche doth here commende
She renneth not hourly fro house to hous
But kepeth home as duly as a mous

The fyfth sorowe.

THe fyfth sorowe is very dolorous
As he is buried and the wyfe in hous
Alone is left, and al her neyghbours gone
Styl museth she than makyng great mone
Sayng, wo is me thys tyme for to se
Now must I both husband, and wyfe be
Yet what of that I may take such sorow
Parauenture to dye or tomorowe
Nay let it be, for I wyl take no thought
Sorow wyl ryght soone bryng me to nought
Now syth he be gon, wel what remedy
Other be wyddwes as wel as I

The fourth sorowe.

NOwe wofull woman Iesu be thy spede
Harde is to knowe what lyfe thou wilt lede
All this nyght, when I to me mynde call
With no more rest than a stone in a wall
Now wyll thou consyder thy great coste
And howe thow hast a good husbande loste
I meane thy bedfelowe, for he is gone
Thus is a newe payne for to lye a lone
Now muse thou must, where thou wast wo n t to plai
Yet for all this as sone as any day
Thou must a rys and ouer se thy hous
With come here, go there, as busy as a mous

The thyrd sorowe.

FOrth now than goeth this wofull creature
To the thyrd sorowe. I may you well ensure
In to the chyrche and sytteth in a pewe
Full often than chaungeth all her hewe
For veray fayntnes, or is to harde enbraced
Would God sayth she that I were vnlaced
Or els may chaunce with chylde that she go
Of .x. wekes tyme, or haply of mo
Or els some qualme may in her stomacke ryseAs women haue in many dyuers wyse
But for all that this wydowe sytteth styll
Puttyng her selfe all in goddes wyll

The second sorow.

THe seconde sorow that these wyues do make
Is when iiii men the corps on the m do take
Toward the chyrche, and the prestes do syng
This wofull wydow al waye folowyng
With bedes in hande, in mournynge hood
God knoweth yf syghes do her any good
Now thinketh she, here haue I much to do
And haply thys wydowe hath a shorte sho
That streyneth her toes, and doeth hurte her fote
Than thynketh she, I be shrew the hearte rote
Of the horeson sowter, it greueth me so

The fyrst sorowe.

THe fyrst sorowe that these women haue
Is or theyr husbandes be layde in graue
And that is duble in this maner wyse
This man full sycke in deadly paynes lyse
Many a daye, nygh to the houre of deth
His eyene dymmeth, and very shorte is his breth
The flewme ratleth in his brest and throte
His powlces beten, his tounge is roughe and hote
Phisicions forsake him euery chone
Whan that they se his money almost gone
Than this pore woman that so greatly toyled