I will spend my days in prayer, Love and all her laws defye; In a nunnery will I shroud mee Far from any companye: But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss. Thus farewell, most gallant captain! Farewell too my heart's content! Count not Spanish ladies wanton, Though to thee my love was bent: Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee! "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie." THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY [Illustration] It was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades; And he met with a lady faire, Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see. And how should I know your true love From many another one? O by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoone. But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view; His flaxen locks that sweetly 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 stone. Within these holy cloysters long He languisht, and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladyes love, And 'playning of her pride. Here bore him barefac'd on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall. And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! And art thou dead and gone! And didst thou die for love of me! Break, cruel heart of stone! O weep not, lady, weep not soe; Some ghostly comfort seek: Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Ne teares bedew thy cheek. O do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth, That e'er wan ladyes love. And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, I'll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye. Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrowe is in vaine: For violets pluckt the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe. Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, Why then should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy losse, Grieve not for what is past. O say not soe, thou holy friar; I pray thee, say not soe: For since my true-love dyed for mee, 'Tis meet my tears should 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. His cheek was redder than the rose; The comliest youth was he! But he is dead and laid in his grave: Alas, and woe is me! Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever: One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never. Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy.