On a rich enchanted bed

She pillow'd his majestic head;
O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
Thrice she wav'd an opiate wand;
And to soft music's airy sound,
Her magic curtains clos'd around.
There, renew'd the vital spring,
Again he reigns a mighty king;
And many a fair and fragrant clime,
Blooming in immortal prime,
By gales of Eden ever fann'd,
Owns the monarch's high command:
Thence to Britain shall return
(If right prophetic rolls I learn),
Borne on Victory's spreading plume,
His ancient scepter to resume;
Once more, in old heroic pride,
His barbed courser to bestride;
His knightly table to restore,
And brave the tournaments of yore.'

'I'm come,' quod hee, 'unto your grace To move your clemencye.'

84

88

48

Wylle val'rous actions prize; Respect a brave and nobile mynde, Although ynne enemies.'

92

That dydd mee beinge gyve,

I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

'By Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n,
Thys sunne shall be hys laste,'
Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste.

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