“Unto the _towne_ of Walsingham, The way is hard for to be gone, And very crooked are those _pathes_ For you to find out all alone.” Were the miles doubled _thrise_ And the way never so ill, It were not enough for mine offence; It is so _grevous_ and so ill. “Thy _yeares_ are young, thy face is _faire_, Thy wits are _weake_, thy thoughts are _greene_; Time hath not given thee leave as yet For to commit so great a _sinne_!” Yes, herdsman, yes, _soe_ wou’dst thou say, If thou knewest so much as I; My wits, and _thoughtes_, and all the rest, Have well deserved for to dye. I am not what I _seeme_ to _bee_, My cloths and _sexe doe_ differ _fare_; I am a woman, woe _is mee_! Born to _greeffe_, and irksome care. For my beloved, and well beloved, My wayward cruelty could kill; And though my _teares_ will naught avail, Most _dearely_ I bewail him still. He was the flower of noble wights, None ever more sincere _colde bee_, Of _comelye_ mien and shape he was, And _tenderlye_ he loved _mee_. When thus I _sawe_ he loved me well, I grew so _proude_ his _paine_ to see, That I, who did not know _myselfe_, Thought _scorne_ of such a youth as _hee_. And grew so coy, and nice to please, As women’s _lookes_ are often _soe_, He might not _kisse_, nor hand forsooth, _Unlesse_ I willed him _soe_ to _doe_. Thus being _wearyed_ with _delayes_, To see I _pityed_ not his _greeffe_, He goes him to a _secret_ place, And there he dyed without _releeffe_. And for his sake these _weedes_ I _weare_, And sacrifice my tender age; And every day I’ll beg my bread, To _undergoe_ this pilgrimage. Thus every day I’ll fast and _praye_, And ever will do till I _dye_; And get me to some _secrett_ place, For so did _hee_, and _soe_ will I. Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more, But keep my _secretts_ I thee pray; Unto the _towne_ of Wallsingham Shew _me the_ right and _readye waye_. “Now _goe_ thy _wayes_, and God before, For he must ever guide thee still; Turn down the dale the _righte_ hand _pathe_, And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well.” ――――:o:―――― THE HERMIT. “Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. “For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.” “Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries, “To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.