And thus thro' crannies of the thorn that thickly plaited

were

I prest to see if any wight were in that garden there.

Then straight I saw three ladies gay sitting in arbour green, Their heads all garlanded with flowers of fairest, freshest hues,

Their braided tresses shone like gold, and such their beauties were,

That all the ground seemed light around, gleaming with gladsome beams;

Comb'd were those waving locks so bright, and curiously did part

Straight down their shoulders, fair and round, in folds of wavy length;

Their curches cast were them above, of muslin thin and clear,

And green their mantles were as grass that grows in May

season,

Bordered with feathers curious wrought, around their graceful sides;

With wondrous favour meek and gent their goodly faces shone,

All blooming in their beauty bright, like flowers in middle June:

Soft, seemly, white, their skin did show, like lilies newly

blown,

Tinted with damask, as the rose whose little bud just opes.

A marble table covered stood before these ladies three, With glittering, goodly cups in rows, replenished all with

wine;

And of these lightsome dames were two wedded to lords

I ween,

The third in widowhood did live, a wanton she and gay. Full loud they talked, and struck the board, and many a tale they knew,

And deep and oft they drain❜d the cup, and loud and louder grew

Their mirth and words, and faster still from tale to tale they flew *.

*Poems, vol. i, pp. 61, 62.

Such is a moderately close translation of the opening of this satirical tale; but it is impossible to follow the widow or the married ladies farther. We e are not, however, to form our ideas of the female manners of the age from the conversation and loose principles of Dunbar's Cummeris.' It is not to be forgotten that it is a satirical poem, and probably did not profess to give an exact picture of the times.

6

The Friars of Berwick,' which Pinkerton, on very probable grounds, has ascribed to this poet, affords a still finer example of his vigour as a satirist. Its object is to expose the licentious lives of some of the monkish orders, and nothing can be more rich than the humour with which the story is told. Friar Robert and Friar Allan, two of the order of White Jacobin Friars, set off from Berwick to visit their brethren in the country. On their return they are benighted :

Whiles on a time they purposed to pass hame1,
But very tired and wet was friar Allane,
For he was old and might not well travel,
And he had too a little spice of gravel;

Young was friar Robert, strong and hot of blood,
And by the way he bore both cloths and hood,
And all their gear, for he was wise and wight.
By this it drew near hand towards the night;
As they were comming toward the town full near,
Thus spoke friar Allan, My good brother dear,
It is so late, I dread the gates be closed;
And tired are we, and very ill disposed

To lodge out of the toun, perchance then we
In some good house this night may lodged be *.' .

This is scarcely spoken when they find them

1 home.

*Poems, vol. ii. p. 4.

selves at the door of the hostelrie of Simon Lauder, an honest innkeeper, whose wife, Dame Alison, is somewhat similar in her disposition to the two married women and the widow, with whom we are already acquainted-fond of good cheer and good company, and not very correct in her morals. The friars knock at the gate, inquire for the 'gudeman,' and find that he has gone to the country to buy corn and hay. They then complain of being wondrous thirsty, and the dame, with ready hospitality, fills a stoup of ale, and invites them to sit down and refresh themselves, to which they at once assent:

The friars were blyth, and merry tales could tell, And ev❜n with that they heard the vesper bell Of their own abbey; then they were aghast, Because they knew the gates were closed fast *. The friars in dismay entreat Dame Alison, seeing they are shut out from their own abbey, to give them a night's lodging; but this she steadily refuses, alleging the scandal which would be likely to arise should she in the absence of her husband be known to have harboured two friars. She points, however, to a barn or outhouse, where they are welcome to take up their quarters, and to which she sends her maiden to prepare their bed, and there they lie down accordingly; friar Allan, who was old and fatigued with travel, to sleep, but friar Robert is wakeful, and at last rises to see if he may spy or meet with any merriment. The story then turns to the goodwife, Dame Alison, who, in the absence of her husband, had invited friar John, a neighbouring monk, of great *Poems, vol. ii. p. 5.

riches and dignity, to sup with her that evening. Her preparations for the feast, and her rich toilet are admirably described :

She thristit on fat capons to the spit,

And rabbits eke to fire she straight did lay,
Syne bad the maidin in all haste she may
To flam, and turn and roast them tenderly,
And to her chamber then she went in hy1.

She cloth'd her in a gown of finest red,
A fair white curch she placed upon her head,
Her kirtle was of silk and silver fine,

Her other garments like red gold did shine,
On every finger she wore ringis two,

And trod as proud as any papingo.

Then spread the board with cloth of costly green,
And napery plac'd above right well be sene.*

The expected guest at last tirls at the gate, and the meeting, which is seen through a cranny in the chamber by friar Robert, is described with great spirit and humour. Nor does the friar come empty handed: he brings a pair of 'bossis' or bottles

' good and fine,

That hold a gallon full of Gascogne wine;' two plump partridges, and some rich cakes in a basket. They now sit down to their feast, but in the middle of supper, their merriment is interrupted by a loud knocking at the door, and to their dismay it turns out to be honest Simon himself, who, having completed his business, arrives suddenly. All All is in confusion in a moment: friar John runs from corner to corner, not knowing where to escape, but at last, finding it impossible

1 haste.
Poems, vol. ii. p. 8.

to effect his retreat, he ensconces himself in a large meal-trough or girnel, which lay in a nook of the chamber, the rich feast is then whirled off the board, the rabbits, capons, partridges, winė, and dainties, shut up in the aumry or closet, the fire slackened or put out, the house swept, and the dame herself, stripping off her gay apparel, creeps to bed. Meanwhile, as might be expected, Simon gets impatient

And on his Alison began to cry,

Whilst at the last she answered crabbedly-
Ah who is this that knows so well my name?
Go hence, she says, for Simon is fra hame,
And I will harbour here no guests perfay;
Therefore I pray you that ye wend your way,
For at this time ye may not lodged be.

Then Simon said, Fair dame, ken ye not me *?

The goodman is at length admitted, and, being cold and hungry, asks hastily for his supper; Alison remonstrates, and ridicules the idea of getting meat at this unseasonable hour :

The goodwife shortly said, ye may me trow,
Here is no meat that can be drest for you.
How so, fair dame? go get me cheese and bread,
Then fill the stoup, hold me no more in plead,
For I am very weary, wet, and cold.

Then up she rose, and durst no more be bold,
Cover'd the board, thereon set meat in hy,

And soused nolt's foot, and sheep's head cunningly,
And some cold meat she to him serv'd meanwhile,
Syne filled the stoup; the gudeman then gan smile,
And sat him down to taste the hearty cheer,
Said, nought want I but a companion here t.

This hospitable wish of the honest innkeeper, is overheard by the friars, who are in the adjoining

* Poems, vol. ii. p. 11.

+ Ibid, p. 12.