Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, 25
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,
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 musick play'd sweet,
With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.

35

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,
Till at last he began for to tumble and roul

45

From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
Being seven times drunker than ever before.

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.

50

For his glory to him' so pleasant did seem,

55

That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;

'T'ill 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,
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."

65

70

XVIII.

The Friar of Orders Gray.

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.

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

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. Shaksp. vol. viii. p. 224.

VOL. I.

For thee I only wisht to live,

66

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.

N

45

"Our joyes as winged dreams doe flye,
Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy losse,
Grieve not for what is past."

50

Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,

For ever to remain.

60

"Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,

And left thee sad and heavy;

70

For young men ever were fickle found,

Since summer trees were leafy."

"Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not soe;

My love he had the truest heart:

O he was ever true!

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

And didst thou dye for me?

Then farewell home; for ever-more

A pilgrim I will bee.

75

80

"But first upon my true-love's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,

That wraps his breathless clay."

85

"Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile

Beneath this cloyster wall:

See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,

And drizzly rain doth fall."

*

Is not yet passed away,

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.'

2 The year of probation, or noviciate.

105

As the foregoing song has been thought to have suggested to our late excellent poet, Dr. Goldsmith, the plan of his beautiful ballad of Edwin and Emma (first printed in his Vicar of Wakefield), it is but justice to his memory to declare, that his poem was written first, and that if there is any imitation in the case, they will be found both to be indebted to the beautiful old ballad, Gentle Herdsman, &c., printed in book fourth of this work, which the Doctor had much admired in manuscript, and has finely improved.—See vol. i. book iv. song xiv. ver. 37, &c.

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.