The Bride

Name: The Bride
Author: Samuel Rowlands

by Samuel Rowlands

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English poetry

In: Poetry·British Literature

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Introductory Note

When the complete works of Samuel Rowlands were issued by the Hunterian Club in 1872-1880, in an edition of two hundred and ten copies, the Editor was obliged to omit from the collection the poem entitled "The Bride." No copy of this tract was supposed to be extant. Twenty years later, in the article on Rowlands in the Dictionary of National Biography, Mr. Sidney Lee also names this poem as one of the author's lost works. All that was known of it was the entry in the Stationers' Register: [Footnote: Arber's Transcript, vol. iii. p. 609.]

"22 [degrees] Maij 1617 "Master Pauier. Entred for his Copie vnder the handes of master TAUERNOR and both the wardens, A Poeme intituled The Bride, written by SAMUELL ROWLANDE vj'd."

While all of Rowlands's works are classed by bibliographers as "rare," this one seemed to have disappeared entirely. No copy was to be found in any of the large libraries or private collections, nor was there any record of its sale.

Last spring a copy was discovered in the catalogue of a bookseller in a small German town, and was secured for the Harvard College Library, being purchased from the Child Memorial Fund. The copy is perfect, except that the inner corner at the top of the second and third leaves has been torn off, with the loss of parts of two words, which have been supplied in manuscript. From this copy the present reprint is made. As in the Hunterian Club edition of Rowlands's Works, to which this may be considered a supplement, the reprint is exact. The general makeup of the book as to style and size of type has been followed as closely as possible; and the text has been reproduced page for page and word for word. The misprints, which are unusually numerous, even for a book of this period, have been left uncorrected. The title-page and the two head-pieces have been reproduced by photography.

Of the poem itself, since it is now before the reader, little need be said. It cannot be claimed that it presents great poetical merit. Rowlands at his best was but an indifferent poet,--hardly more than a penny-a-liner. In his satirical pieces and epigrams, and in that bit of genuine comedy, "Tis Merrie vvhen Gossips meete," his work does have a real literary value, and is distinctly interesting as presenting a vivid picture of London life at the beginning of the seventeenth century. In "The Bride," it must be confessed, Rowlands falls below his own best work. Yet the poem is by no means wholly lacking in interest. If not his best work, "The Bride" is by no means his worst. Like most of his poems, it is written in an heroic stanza of six lines, and, as is not so common with him, is in dialogue form. The dialogue for the most part is well sustained and sprightly. The story of the birth of Merlin, it is true, seems to have been inserted mainly to fill out the required number of pages; but this digression has an interest of its own, in that the name here given to Merlin's mother, "Lady Adhan," does not appear in the ordinary versions of the legend.

Of Rowlands's life almost nothing is known: that little is told in the Memoir by Mr. Gosse prefixed to the Hunterian Club edition, and by Mr. Lee in the Dictionary of National Biography, and need not be repeated here. All that is known with certainty is that Samuel Rowlands was a writer of numerous poems and pamphlets, published between the years 1598 and 1628. During this period there appeared almost every year a pamphlet bearing his name or the well known initials, "S. R." Twenty-eight separate works, of which many passed through several editions, are known to have been written by him. All of these early editions are rare; at least two of the works have been lost; several are extant only in the second or later editions; and of at least ten, only single copies are known to exist. Beside the edition of the Works already referred to, a number of Rowlands's tracts have been separately reprinted, in limited editions, by Sir Walter Scott, by S. W. Singer, by E. V. Utterson, by Halliwell-Phillipps, by J. P. Collier, and by E. F. Rimbault in the publications of the Percy Society; to this series of reprints, "The Bride" is now added.

Not out of bubble blasted Pride, Doe I oppose myselfe a Bride, In scornefull manner with vpbraides: Against all modest virgin maides. As though I did dispise chast youth, This is not my intent of truth, I know they must liue single liues, Before th'are graced to be wiues. But such are only touch'd by me, That thinke themselues as good as wee: And say girles, Weomens fellows arr, Nay sawcely, Our betters farr: Yea will dispute, they are as good, Such Wenches vex me to the blood, And are not to be borne with all: Those I doe here in question call, Whome with the rules of reasons Arte: He teach more wit before we part, Sylence, of kindnes I beseech, Doe you finde eares, and weele finde speach.

The Bride

Virgins, and fellow maydes (that were of late) Take kindly heere my wedding dayes a dew, I entertayne degree aboue your state: For Marriage life's beyond the single crew, Bring me to Church as custome sayes you shall, And then as wife, farewell my wenches all.

I goe before you vnto Honour now, And Hymen's Rites with ioy doe vndertake For life, I make the constant Nuptiall vow, Striue you to follow for your credits sake, For greater grace to Womankind is none Then Ioyne with husband, faithfull two in one.

God Honoured thus, our great Grand-mother Eue And gaue thereby the blessing of increase, For were not mariage we must all beleeue, The generations of the earth would cease. Mankind should be extinguish'd and decreas'd And all the world would but consist of beast.

Which caused me to finde my Mayden folly, And having found it, to reforme the same: Though some of you, thereat seeme melancholy That I for ever doe renounce your name. I not respect what censure you can giue, Since with a loving Man I meane to liue.

Whose kindest heart, to me is worth you all, Him to content, my soule in all things seekes, Say what you please, exclaiming chide and brall, Ile turne disgrace unto your blushing cheekes. I am your better now by Ring and Hatt, No more playn Rose, but Mistris you know what.

Marrie therefore and yeald increase a store, Else to what purpose weare you breed and borne: Those that receaue, and nothing giue therefore: Are fruitles creatures, of contempt and scorne, The excellence of all things doth consist, In giuing, this no reason can resist.

The glorious Sun, in giving forth his light, The Earth in plants, and hearbs & countles things The trees their fruit, The Empresse of the Night She bountious gives to rivers flouds and springs, And all that heaven, and all that earth containes, Their goodnes, in Increase of guifts explaynes.

But what doe you that neither give nor take, (As only made for hearing, and for seeing,) Although created helpers for Mans sake: Yet Man no whit the better for your being, That spend consume and Idle out your howers, Like many garden-paynted vselesse flowers.

Your liues are like those worthles barren trees, That never yeald (from yeare to yeare) but leaues: Greene-bowes vpon them only all men sees, But other goodnes there is none receaues, They flourish sommer and they make a showe, Yet to themselues they fruitles spring & growe.

Consider beast, and fish and foule, all creatures, How there is male and female of their kinde, And how in loue they doe inlarge their natures: Even by constrayn'd necessity inclyn'd: To paire and match, and couple tis decreed, To stocke and store the earth, with what they breed.

In that most powerfull word, still power doth lye, To whose obedience all must subiect bee, That sayd at first, Increase and multiply, Which still enduers from age to age we see: Dutie obligeth every one should frame, To his dread will, that did commaund the same.

It is not good for Man to be alone, Sayd that great God, who only knowes whats best: And therefore made a wife of Adams bone, While he reposing slept, with quyet rest, Which might presage, the great Creator ment, In their coniunction, sume of earths content,

Mistris Susan.

Good Mistris Bride, now we haue hard your speach In commendation of your Nuptiall choyse, Giue me a little favour I beseech, To speake vnto you with a Virgins voyce: Though diuers elder maydes in place there be, Yet ile begin, trusting they'le second me.

We are your fellows but to Church you say, As custome is that maydes, should bring the Bride And for no longer then the wedding day, You hould with vs, but turne to tother side: Boasting of Honour you affend vnto, And so goe forward making much adoe.

But this vnto you lustly I obiect, In the defence of each beloued mayde, Virginity, is life of chast respect, No worldly burden thereupon is layd: Our syngle life, all peace and quiet bringes, And we are free from carefull earthly things.

We may doe what we please, goe where we list, Without pray husband will you giue me leaue Our resolutions no man can resist, Our own's our owne, to giue or to receiue, We live not under this same word obay: Till Death depart us, at our dying day.

We may delight in fashion, weare the same, And chuse the stuffe of last devised sale: Take Taylors counsell in it free from blame, And cast it off assone as it growes stale: Goe out, come in, and at selfe pleasure liue, And kindly take, what kind youngmen do giue.

Wee have no checking churlish taunts to feare us, We have no grumbling at our purse expence: We seeke no misers favour to forbeare us, We use no houshold wranglings and offence: We have no cocke to over crowe our combe,

Cate.

Well said good Susan, now thou pay'st her home.

Bride.

A little favour pray, good Mistris Sue, You haue a time to heare aswell as speake: You challenge more by odds then is your due, And stand on Arguments are childish weake: Of freedome, liberty, and all content, But in the aire your breath is vainely spent.

It is your shame to bost you haue your will, And that you are in feare of no controwle, Your cases Sufan, are more bad and ill, Most dangerous to body and to soule: A woman to her will hath oft bin try'd, To run with errour, on the left hand side.

Pray did not danger then to Eue befall, When she tooke liberty without her heda, The Serpent ouercame her therwithall, And thorow will, she wilfull was misled: Yelding assoone as Sathan did intice, And of her husband neuer tooke aduise.

In wit to men we are inferiour far, For arts for learning, and Ingenious things, No rare Inuentions in our braynes there are, That publique profit to a kingdome brings: Tis they that must all callings execute, And wee of all their labours reape the fruite.

They are Diuines for soules true happines, They Maiestraites to right offensiue wronges, They souldiers for their martiall valiantnes, They artizans, for all to vse belonges: They husbandmen to worke the earths increase, And they the some of womens ioye and peace.

And shall not we performe obedience then? As wee are bound by law of God and nature, Yealding true harts affection unto men, Ordain'd to rule and gouerne euery creature: Why then of all on earth that liue and moue, We should degenerate and monsters proue.

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