“Dispersed through Shakespeare’s plays are innumerable little fragments of Ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the reader’s candour.” 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.”[12] “But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so faire 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 lanquisht, and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladyes love, And ’playning of her pride.” * * * * * “And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! And art thou dead and gone! And dids’t thou dye of 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 tears 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.” (Eleven stanzas here omitted.) * * * * * “O, stay me not, thou holy friar; O stay me not, I pray; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away.” “Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears; For see, beneath this gown of gray Thy own true-love appears. Here forc’d by grief, and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. But haply, for my year of grace[13] Is not yet past away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay. Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part. ―――― THE HERMIT. _A Prophetic Ballad._