And thou unhappy tree,
Which shroudest now the corse of one, and shalt anon through me
Shroud two, of this same slaughter hold the sicker[7] signs for ay
Black be the colour of thy fruit and mourning-like alway,
Such as the murder of us twain may evermore bewray.
This said, she took the sword, yet warm with slaughter of her love,
And setting it beneath her breast did to the heart it shove.
Her prayer with the gods and with their parents took effect,
For when the fruit is throughly ripe, the berry is bespect[8]
With colour tending to a black. And that which after fire
Remained, rested in one tomb as Thisbe did desire.
* * * * *
ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW; HIS MAD PRANKS AND MERRY JESTS
Not omitting that ancient form of beginning tales, _Once upon a time_ it
was my chance to travel into that noble county of Kent. The weather being
wet, and my two-legged horse being almost tired (for indeed my own legs
were all the supporters that my body had), I went dropping into an
alehouse; there found I, first a kind welcome, next good liquor, then kind
strangers (which made good company), then an honest host, whose love to
good liquor was written in red characters both in his nose, cheeks and
forehead: an hostess I found there too, a woman of very good carriage; and
though she had not so much colour (for what she had done) as her rich
husband had, yet all beholders might perceive by the roundness of her
belly, that she was able to draw a pot dry at a draught, and ne'er unlace
for the matter.
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