Nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, Thou shalt never, faid he, range the counteries round, Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend, 65 Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchefs attend.

Then the tinker reply'd, What! muft Joan my fweet bride
Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?

Muft we have gold and land e'ry day at command ?
Then I fhall be a fquire I well understand:

70

Well I thank your good grace, and your love Ì embrace, I was never before in fo happy a cafe.

XVI.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

Difperfed thro' Shakespeare's plays are innumerable little fragments of ancient ballads, the intire copies of which, could not be recovered. Many of thefe being of the most beautiful and pathetic fimplicity, the Editor was tempted to Select fome of them, and with a few fupplemental ftanzas to connect them together and form them into a little TALE, which is here jubmitted to the Reader's candour.

One fmall fragment was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher.

VOL. III.

Q

IT

Now Chrift thee fave, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst fee.

And how fhould I know your true love,

From many another one?

O by his cockle hat, and staff,

And by his fandal shoone ‡.

But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were fo fair to view;

His flaxen locks that fweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue.

O lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!

And at his head a green grass turfe,

And at his heels a ftone.

Thefe are the diftinguishing marks of a pilgrim. The chief places of devotion being beyond fea, the pilgrims were wont to put cockle fhells in their hats to denote the intention or performance of their pilgrimage. Warb. Shakefp. Vol. 8. p. 224.

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!

And art thou dead and gone!

And didst thou dye for love of me!

Break, cruel heart of stone!

O weep not, lady, weep not foe 3
Some ghoftly comfort feek:

Let not vain forrow rive thy heart,
Ne teares bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, holy friar,
My forrow now reprove;

For I have loft the fweetest youth,
That e'er wan ladyes love.

And nowe, alas! for thy fad loffe,
I'll evermore weep and figh;

For thee I only wisht to live,

For thee I wish to dye.

Q 2

30

35

10

Weep

no more, lady, weep no more,

y forrowe is in vaine :

For vielets pluckt the fweeteft fhowers

W ne'er make grow againe.

Curjoys as winged dreams doe flye,

45

Why then fhould forrow laft?

50

Since grief but aggravates thy loffe,
Grieve not for what is past.

O fay not foe, thou holy friar;

I pray thee, fay not foe:

For ince my true-love dyed for mee,

55

'Tis meet my tears fhould flow.

And will he ne'er come again?

Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
For ever to remain.

60

His cheek was redder than the rose,

The comlieft youth was he :

But he is dead and laid in his grave:

70

75

Hadft thou been fond, he had been false,
And left thee fad and heavy;

For young men ever were fickle found,
Since fummer trees were leafy.

And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,

And didft thou dye for mee?

Then farewell home; for, ever-more

A pilgrim I will bee.

But first upon my true-loves grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,
That wraps his breathless clay.

Yet ftay, fair lady; reft awhile

Beneath this cloyster wall:

See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
And drizzly rain doth fall.

O ftay me not, thou holy friar;

O ftay me not I pray :

No drizzly rain that falls on me,
Can wash my fault away.

80

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