XIV.

THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.

This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263, folio. It is there intitled, "_The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's Cruelty_: being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the lady Isabella, the only daughter of a noble duke, &c. To the tune of, _The Lady's Fall_." To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, intitled, _The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation_.

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There was a lord of worthy fame, And a hunting he would ride, Attended by a noble traine Of gentrye by his side.

And while he did in chase remaine, 5 To see both sport and playe; His ladye went, as she did feigne, Unto the church to praye.

This lord he had a daughter deare, Whose beauty shone so bright, 10 She was belov'd, both far and neare, Of many a lord and knight.

Fair Isabella was she call'd, A creature faire was shee; She was her father's only joye; 15 As you shall after see.

Therefore her cruel step-mothèr Did envye her so much; That daye by daye she sought her life, Her malice it was such. 20

She bargain'd with the master-cook, To take her life awaye: And taking of her daughters book, She thus to her did saye.

Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, 25 Go hasten presentlie; And tell unto the master-cook These wordes that I tell thee.

And bid him dresse to dinner streight That faire and milk-white doe, 30 That in the parke doth shine so bright, There's none so faire to showe.

This ladye fearing of no harme, Obey'd her mothers will; And presentlye she hasted home, 35 Her pleasure to fulfill.

She streight into the kitchen went, Her message for to tell; And there she spied the master-cook, Who did with malice swell. 40

Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe, Do that which I thee tell: You needes must dresse the milk-white doe, Which you do knowe full well.

Then streight his cruell bloodye hands, 45 He on the ladye layd; Who quivering and shaking stands, While thus to her he sayd:

Thou art the doe, that I must dresse; See here, behold my knife; 50 For it is pointed presently To rid thee of thy life.

O then, cried out the scullion-boye, As loud as loud might bee; O save her life, good master-cook, 55 And make your pyes of mee!

For pityes sake do not destroye My ladye with your knife; You know shee is her father's joye, For Christes sake save her life. 60

I will not save her life, he sayd, Nor make my pyes of thee; Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye, Thy butcher I will bee.

Now when this lord he did come home 65 For to sit downe and eat; He called for his daughter deare, To come and carve his meat.

Now sit you downe, his ladye sayd, O sit you downe to meat: 70 Into some nunnery she is gone; Your daughter deare forget.

Then solemnlye he made a vowe, Before the companìe: That he would neither eat nor drinke, 75 Until he did her see.

O then bespake the scullion-boye, With a loud voice so hye: If now you will your daughter see, My lord, cut up that pye: 80

Wherein her fleshe is minced small, And parched with the fire: All caused by her step-mothèr, Who did her death desire.

And cursed bee the master-cook, 85 O cursed may he bee! I proffered him my own hearts blood, From death to set her free.

Then all in blacke this lord did mourne; And for his daughters sake, 90 He judged her cruell step-mothèr To be burnt at a stake.

Likewise he judg'd the master-cook In boiling lead to stand; And made the simple scullion-boye 95 The heire of all his land.