Now go, my booke, and be courageous,
For now I send you forthe into the worlde.
And though ye may find some outrageous,
And in a pette be in some cornere hurl'd;
Yet you by little fingeres will be greasÈd
And known hereafter by the marke of thumbe;
At which, my little booke, be ye well pleasÈd,
For booke, like mouthe, unopenÈd is dumbe.
And there be some, perchance, will bidde you off
To ConventrÈ, or Yorke, or Jericho;
But be not you, my booke, abashed by scoff,
For I will teach you where you boun to go,—
Which is in Gloucestershire, there unto Bisley,
Where the church spire is spiÈd long afarre;
It is not either uncouth, square, or grisly,
But soareth high, as if to catch a starre;
Where shall the brother of the Christian Yeare,
Keble, hereafter tend the seven springs,
Above whose fountains doth The Grove uproar,
Like to Mount Helicon, where Clio sings,
Where rookÈs build, and peacocke spreadeth tail.
And there the wood-pigeon doth sobbe Coo coo;
Neither do sparrow, merle or mavis fail,
And there the owl at midnight singeth Whoo.
And where there are a Laurel and a Rose,
Beneath whose branches wide a broode doth haunt;
The whom high walls and fretted gates enclose,
Where goode may enter, badde are bidde avaunt.
And there is one yclepen Margarete,
Who alsoe for the nonce is clepen Rose,
For she must on some other hille be sette
When HymenÆos shall her lotte dispose.
And, little booke, it is to her you runne.
And sisters eight, for they, in soothe, are nine;
And in their bowere baske as in the suunne,
And beare Maid Marion's love to Catherine,
Who is her gossipe, and she is her pette;
And nought mote save us from a wrath condign,
If you, my booke, should haplessly forgette,
Nor bended knees, I trow, nor teares of Margarete.