there is nothing remarkable in it, though Percy and Ritson have inserted it in their collections.

To Henry the Eighth's time belongs John Skelton, the poet laureat, an industrious plodding rhymer; many of his songs savour too strongly of indecency, and others are but scant of merit. His works paint the manners of his age, and are valuable merely for that unpoetical quality. We have other songs besides Skelton's, written at this period, the best of which is one entitled by Ritson :

:

A [LOVE] SONGE.

My joye it is from her to here,
Whom that my mynd ys euer to see,
& to my hart she ys most near
For I love hur & she lovyth me.

Of deuty nedes I must hur love,
Which hath my hart so stedfastly,
Ther ys no payne may me convert,

But styll to loue hur whyle she lovyth me.

Both loue for loue, & hart for hart,
Which hath my hart so stedfastly,
Therfore my hart shall not remove,
For I love hur & she lovyth me.

Chryst wolt the ffuger† of hur swete face

Were pyctored wher euer I 'be'

Yn euery hall, from place to place,
For I loue hur and she lovyth me.

Her copany doth me confort,
Therfor in hast J wyll resorte,
To yoye my harte wt play & sport,
For I loue hur & she lovyth me.t

*Would to Christ.

† Figure.

Ritson strangely enough altered these verses himself for the new edition of his Ancient Songs, transposing lines, omitting the last

Sir John Hawkins in his History of Music has presented us with another very pretty song, written in Harry the Eighth's day, inserted by Ritson in his Ancient Songs.

MY SWETE SWETING.

Ah, my swete swetyng!

My lytyl prety swetyng,

My swetyng wyl I loue whereuer I go;
She is so proper and pure,

Full stedfast, stabill and demure,

There is none such, ye may be sure,

As my swete sweting.

In all thys world, as thynketh me,
Is none so plesaunt to my eye,
That I am glad soo ofte to see,
As my swete swetyng.

When I behold my swetyng swete,
Her face, her hands, her minion fete,
They seme to me there is none so mete,
As my swete swetyng.

Above all other prayse must I,
And loue my pretty pygsnye,*

For none I fynd soo womanly
As my swete swetyng.

Among the Royal MSS. in the British Museum there is a small oblong music book, with words and notes, undoubtedly written during the reign of Henry VIII. The songs found in it are of no great merit, even the industrious Ritson, a lover of every

See

stanza, and christening it, "Mutual Affection," what sacrilege! the edition of 1830, vol. ii. p. 22. The above is printed from the MS.

(Harl. 3362) and Ritson's first print.

* Sweetheart.

thing that wore an air of antiquity, passed it over. It contains a few verses nevertheless written with a tinge of comic spirit about them, an uncommon rarity in this class of English productions. An unfortunate suitor, apparently rejoicing that some misfortune has happened to his once loved Kytt, bursts into the subject at once

Kytt hathe lost hur key hur key,
Goode Kytt hath lost hur key,
She is so sorry for the cause-
She wotts not what to say-

She wotts not what to say goode Kytt-
She wotts not what to say,
Goode Kitt's so sorry for the cause-
She wotts not what to say.

Goode Kytt she wept, I ask'd why so
That she made all this mone,

She sayde alas! I am so woo
My key is lost and gone.

Kytt hathe lost, &c.

Kytt why did ye losse your key
Fore sothe ye were to blame,
Now eu'y man to yow will say
Kytt Losse Key is your name.
Kytt hathe lost, &c.

Goode Kytt she wept and cry'd, alas!
Hur key she cowde not fynde

In faythe I trow in bowrs she was
With sum that were not kinde.
Kytt hathe lost, &c.

Now farewell Kytt I can no more
I wot not what to say,

But I shall pray to Gode therfore
That yow may fynde your key.
Kytt hathe lost, &c.

Another of the little pieces contained in it, which has likewise never before been referred to, comes from a favoured lover in praise of his mistress.

'If I hade wytt for to endyte

Off my lady both fayre and free

Of her goodnesse then wolde I write,
Shall no man know her name for me.

I love hur well wyth hart and mynde
She ys ryght true I doo hyt see
My hart to haue she dothe me bynde
Shall no man know hur name for me.

She doth not wauer as the wynde,
Nor for no new me chaunge dothe she
But all wayes true I doo hur fynde

Shall no man know hur name for me.

He concludes by saying that she hath his heart and ever shall

Tyll by dethe departyd we bee.

The same writer who keeps up a mystery about his love, is probably the author of the following lines.

The little pretty nightingale

[Sings sweet] among the levis green

I would I were with her all night
But yet ye wote not whom I mean.

The nightingale sat on a brere
Among the thornys sharp and keen
And comfort me with merry cheer
But yet ye wote not whom I mean.

The Editor has modernised the spelling of one of the exclamations in the song against Fortune, and slightly altered one or two lines.

O Fortune now my wounds redress
And help me from my smart,
It cometh well of gentleness

To ease a mourning heart.

O Fortune cruel harsh and hard
What aileth thee at me
My pleasures all thou dost retard
To aid Adversity.

Alas! I love a goodly one,
Who loveth me again-

It is for her I live alone-.

Though thou dost shower disdain.

To have her hand I think me sure,

O Fortune cry consent

And change thy frown of displeasure,
Not make our love misspent.

Woe worth thy power my foremost foe

That art so rude to me

Thou turnest all to care and woe

That joys and sweets should be.

Among the Cottonian MSS. [Vesp. A. 25.] there is a "Dyttie to hey Downe," which Percy inserted with a few alterations in the Reliques of Ancient Poetry. The volume contains "Divers things of Hen. viij's time”—this is the first verse :

Who sekes to tame the blustering wind,

Or cause the floods bend to his will,

Or else against dame Natures kind,

To change things frame [d] by cunning skill:
That man I think bestoweth pain,

Though that his labour be in vain.

Henry Howard, Lord Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt, were the chief poets adorning the reign of the last Henry. Neither of them wrote what may strictly be called songs, Surrey's "description of the