and of that it seems that not more than one copy is extant. Ritson's text is by no means accurate, and the four concluding lines of the piece, with the colophon, are altogether omitted by that gentleman.

Under the circumstances, it would be a perfectly useless occu pation of space and time to dwell on the venerable and affecting legend of the Chastellain de Couci, with which, as already mentined, the English tale has next to nothing in common. But it may be well to refer the reader to Howell's Letters, ed. 1754, p. 258, where the writer, in a letter to Ben Jonson, dated 3 May, 1635, gives an interesting account of an interview which he had then recently had with "one Captain Coucy," who was at that time keeper of the Chateau de Couci. Howell thought that this narrative was "choice and rich stuff, which Jonson might put upon his loom, and make a curious web of." Fairholt, in his Miscellanea Graphica, 1857, 42, plate 23, fig. 4, has engraved a Miséricorde or dagger of mercy, said to have belonged to Raoul de Coucy.

The catastrophe of this story closely resembles that excessively popular one of Guiscard and Sigismunda, which is related by Boccaccio in the First Novel of the Fourth Day of the Decameron, and which has been reproduced in almost every variety of shape since Boccaccio's time. To the early English reader it was made familiar through a poetical paraphrase by William Walter, printed by Wynkyn de Worde in 1532, and again from a different press in 1597, and through Painter's Palace of Pleasure, 1566, where it is the 39th Novel of the First Tome. The author of the pleasing little romance before us was, it seems likely enough, indebted for the idea of the lover's heart served up to his mistress to Walter's production. The tragedy of Guiscard and Sigismunda was brought upon the English stage in 1568, two years after its appearance as a prose narrative in the Palace of Pleasure.

N Faguell, a fayre countrè,

A great lorde somtyme dyd dwell,
Which had a lady so fayre and fre
That all men good of her dyd tel.

Fayre and pleasaunt she was in sight,
Gentyl and amyable in eche degre,
Chaste to her lorde, bothe day and nyght,
As is the turtyll upon the tre.

All men her loued, bothe yonge and olde,
For her vertue and gentylnesse.
Also in that lande was a knight bolde,
Ryght wyse, and ful of doughtinesse.

All men spake of his hardynesse,
Ryche and poore of eche degre,
So that they called him, doutlesse,
The noble knyght of curtesy.

This knight so curteys1 was and bolde,
That the lorde herde ther of anone,
He sayd that speke with him he wolde,
For hym the messengere is gone,

Wyth a letter unto this knight,

And sayd, Syr, I pray god you se; My lorde of Faguell you sendeth ryght An hundred folde gretynge by me.

He praieth you in all hastynge

To come in his court for to dwell,
And ye shal lake no maner of thynge,
As townes, towres, and many a castèll.

1 Orig. has curtesy.

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The curteyse knight was sone content,

And in all dilygence that might be Wyth the messyngere anone he went

This lorde to serve with humylitè.

Fast they rode bothe day and nyght,
Tyll he unto the lorde was come;
And whan the lorde of hym had a sight,
Right frendly he did him welcome.

He gaue hym towenes, castelles and towres,
Whereof all other had enuye,

They thought to reue him his honoures
By some treason or trechery.

This lady, of whome I spake before,

Seyng this knight so good and kynde,

Afore all men that euer were bore

She set on hym her herte and minde.

His paramour she thought to be,

Hym for to loue wyth herte and minde, Nat in vyce but in chastytè,

As chyldren that together are kynde.

This knight also curteyse and wyse,

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40

With herte and mynde both ferme and fast, 50

Loued this lady wythouten vyse,

Whyche tyll they dyed dyd euer laste.

Both night and day these louers true

Suffred great paine, wo and greuaunce,

How eche to other theyr minde might shewe;
Tyll at the last, by a sodaine chaunce,

This knight was in a garden grene,

And thus began him to complayne, Alas! he sayd, with murnynge eyen, Now is my herte in wo and payne.

From mournynge can I nat refrayne,
This ladyes loue dothe me so wounde,
I feare she hath of me disdayne:

With that he fell downe to the grounde.

The lady in a wyndowe laye,

With herte colde as any stone,

She wyst nat what to do nor saye,
Whan she herde the knightes mone.

Sore sighed that lady of renowne,

In her face was no colour founde,

Than into the gardein came she downe,

And sawe this knight lye on the grounde.

Whan she sawe hym lye so for her sake,
Her hert for wo was almoost gone,
To her comforte coude she none take,
But in swoune1 fell downe hym vpon,

So sadly that the knyght awoke,
And whan that he sawe her so nere,

1 Orig. has swonue.

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70

To hym comforte anone he toke,

And began the lady for to chere.

He sayd, Lady and loue, alas,

Into this cure who hath you brought? She sayd, My loue and my solas,

Your beautè standeth so in my thought,

That, yf I had no worldly make,

Neuer none should haue1 my herte but ye.
The knyght sayd, Lady, for your sake
I shall you loue in chastytè.

Our loue, he sayde, shal be none other

But chaste and true, as is betwene

A goodly syster and a brother,

Fro luste our bodyes to kepe clene,

And where so euer mi body be,

Bothe day and night, at euery tyde,

My simpele herte in chastitè

Shall euer more, lady, with you abide.

This lady, white as any floure,

Replete with feminine shamefastnesse,

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Begayn to chaunge her fare coloure,

And to hym sayd, My loue, doubtelesse,

100

Under suche forme I shal you loue

With faythful herte in chastitè,

Orig. has heue.