and disguising the Nut-Brown Maid in this modish fashion, Prior has drawn the moral fore-hammer of Johnson upon her devoted head; and it is not a little amusing to find the " great moralist," who seems entirely unacquainted with the real NutBrown Maid, or the materials on which Prior worked, earnestly and gravely denouncing Emma as a forward minx whose example is of very dangerous tendency. This is indeed

To break a butterfly upon the wheel.

At the risk of dwelling too long on this "flower in the winter-solstice of our poetry," a few verses of the Nut-Brown Maid are submitted to the indulgence of the modern reader.

A high-born lover, who, in the disguise of a squire of low degree, has gained the affections of the Nut-Brown Maid, a baron's daughter, wishes to put her love and fidelity to the most extreme trial the female mind can sustain; and telling her that he has committed a crime, for which he must suffer death or fly, bids her farewell. Her reply to this alarming intelligence is as follows:

SHE.

O Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,

That changeth as the mone!

My somers day in lusty May

Is derked before the none.

I here you say, farewell: Nay, nay,
We depart nat so sone.

Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go?
Alas! what have ye done?

All my welfare to sorrowe and care
Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.

HE.

I can beleve, it shall you greve,
And somewhat you dystrayne;
But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde
Within a day or twayne

Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take

Comfort to you agayne.

Why sholde ye ought? for, to make thought, Your labour were in vayne.

And thus I do; and pray you to,

As hartely, as I can ;

For I must to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.

SHE.

Now, syth that ye have shewed to me

The secret of your mynde,

I shall be playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shall me fynde.

Syth it is so, that ye wyll go,

I wolle not leve behynde;

Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayd

Was to her love unkynde:

Make you redy, for so am I,

Allthough it were anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde

I love but you alone.

НЕ.

Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyll thynke, and say:
Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde,
That ye be gone away,

Your wanton wyll for to fulfill,

In grene wode you to play;

And that ye myght from your delyght
No longer make delay.

Rather than ye sholde thus for me

Be called an yll woman,

Yet wolde I to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.

SHE.

Though it be songe of old and yonge,
That I sholde be to blame,

Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large

In hurtynge of my name :

For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love
It is devoyd of shame;

In your dystresse, and hevynesse,

To part with you, the same:
And sure all tho, that do not so,
True lovers are they none;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.

HE.

I counceyle you, remember howe,
It is no maydens lawe,

Nothynge to dout, but to renne out
To wode with an outlawe:

For ye must there in your hand bere

A bowe, redy to drawe;

And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve,

Ever in drede and awe;

Wherby to you grete harme myght growe:

Yet had I lever than,

That I had to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.

SHE.

I thinke nat nay, but as ye say,

It is no maydens lore:

But love may make me for your sake,
As I have sayd before

To come on fote, to hunt, and shote
To gete us mete in store;
For so that I your company

May have, I aske no more:

From which to part, it maketh my hart

As colde as ony stone:

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.

HE.

Yet take good hede; for ever I drede
That ye coude nat sustayne
The thornie wayes, the depe valèies,
The snowe, the frost, the rayne,
The colde, the hete: for dry, or wete,

We must lodge on the playne;
And, us above, none other rofe

But a brake bush, or twayne:

Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve;

And ye wolde gladly than

That I had to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.

SHE.

Syth I have here bene partynère
With you of joy and blysse,

I must also parte of your wo
Endure, as reson is:

Yet am I sure of one plesure;
And, shortely, it is this:

That, where ye be, me semeth, pardė,

I coude nat fare amysse.

Without more speche, I you beseche

That we were sone agone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.

HE.

If ye go thyder, ye must consyder,
Whan ye have lust to dyne,
There shall no mete be for you gete,
Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne.
No shetès clene, to lye betwene,
Made of threde and twyne;

None other house, but leves and bowes,
To cover your hed and myne,

O myne harte swete, this evyll dyete
Sholde make you pale and wan;
Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.

SHE.

Amonge the wylde dere, such an archère,

As men say that ye be,

Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle,

Where is so grete plentè :

And water clere of the ryvère

Shall be full swete to me;

With which in hele I shall ryght wele

Endure, as ye shall see ;

And, or we go, a bedde or two

I can provyde anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.

*

The seeming harsh lover exacts many other compliances, but cannot exhaust the boundless tenderness of the Nut-Brown Maid, who again replies,

SHE.

I shall as nowe do more for you
Than longeth to womanhede;
To shote my here, a bowe to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede,