And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
He desir'd to know what apparel he'd ware:

The
poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd,
And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.

25

Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich
suit,
Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;
With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,
And it seem'd for to swell him [no] little with pride;
For he said to himself, 'Where is Joan my sweet wife?
Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.'

30

From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace Did observe his behaviour in every case.

To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great!

Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, 35 With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.

A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,
He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
In a rich chair [or bed,] lin'd with fine crimson red,
With a rich golden canopy over his head:
As he sat at his meat, the music play'd sweet,
With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.

40

While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.
Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl, 45
Till at last he began for to tumble and roul
From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
Being seven times drunker than ever before.

50

Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, And restore him his old leather garments again: "Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;

Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.

55

For his glory [to him] so pleasant did seem,
That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;
Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he
sought

For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;
But his highness he said, 'Thou'rt a jolly bold blade,
Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.'

60

Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak; Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, 'Thou shalt never,' said 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 duchess attend.'

Then the tinker reply'd What! must Joan my sweet bride

Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?

Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command ?
Then I shall be a squire I well understand:
Well I thank your good grace, and your love I em-

brace,

I was never before in so happy a case.'

70

XVIII.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

Dispersed thro' 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.

One small fragment was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher.

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.'

5

And how should I know your true love

10

From many another one?'

'O, by his cockle hat, and staff,

And by his sandal shoone.1

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.

20

1 These are the distinguishing marks of a Pilgrim. The chief places of devotion being beyond sea, the pilgrims were wont to put cockle-shells in their hats to denote the intention or performance of their devotion. Warb. Shakesp. Vol. VIII. p. 224.

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 dye 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.

45

40

35

330

25

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

Alas, and woe is me!'

grave:

'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.'