I'll go unto my Gonorell; My fecond child, I know, Will be more kind and pitiful, And will relieve my woe. Full faft he hies then to her court; Within her kitchen, he would have When he had heard with bitter tears Example to all men. I will return again, quoth he, But in a kinder fort. Where when he came, fhe gave command To drive him thence away: When he was well within her court (She faid) he would not stay. Then back again to Gonorell, The woeful king did hie, That in her kitchen he might have But there of that he was deny'd, Thus twixt his daughters, for relief And calling to remembrance then He bore the wounds of woe: Which made him rend his milk-white locks, And treffes from his head, And all with blood beftain his cheeks, and honour spread: To hills and woods and watry founts, He made his hourly moan, Till hills and woods, and fenffefs things, Even thus poffeft with difcontents, To find fome gentler chance. Moft virtuous dame! which when she heard Of this her father's grief, As duty bound, fhe quickly fent Him comfort and relief: And by a train of noble peers, She gave in charge he should be brought Whose royal king, with noble mind So freely gave confent, To mufter up his knights at arms, To fame and courage bent, And so to England came with speed, To repoffeffe king Leir And drive his daughters from their thrones By his Cordelia dear: Where fhe, true-hearted noble queen, Yet he good king, in his old days, But when he heard Cordelia's death, The lords and nobles when they faw The end of thefe events, The other fifters unto death They doomed by consents: And being dead, their crowns they left Unto the next of kin : Thus have you feen the fall of pride, And difobedient fin. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. T was a friar of orders gray, I Walkt forth to tell his beades; And he met with a lady faire, Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. Now Chrift thee fave, thou reverend friar, pray thee tell to me, If ever at you holy fhrine My true love thou didst fee. And how fhould I know your true love, O by his cockle hat, and staff, But chiefly by his face and mien, His flaxen locks that fweetly curl'd, O lady, he is dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, F |