Sidor som bilder


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 embrace,
I was never before in so happy a case.



Dispersed through Shakspeare'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.

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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.


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. Shaksp. vol. viii. p. 284.

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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.

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!

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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.

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

And didst 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 stay, fair lady; rest awhile

Beneath this cloyster wall:




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

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.


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