Thus flattering speeches won renown
By these two sisters here:

The third had causeless banishment,
Yet was her love more dear:
For poor Cordelia patiently

Went wand'ring up and down,
Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
Through many an English town:

Until at last in famous France
She gentler fortunes found;

Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
The fairest on the ground:

Where when the king her virtues heard,

And this fair lady seen,

With full consent of all his court

He made his wife and queen.

But there of that he was deny'd,
Which she had promis'd late:
For once refusing, he should not
Come after to her gate.

Thus 'twixt his daughters, for relief
He wander'd up and down;
Being glad to feed on beggar's food,
That lately wore a crown.

And calling to remembrance then
His youngest daughter's words,
That said, the duty of a child
Was all that love affords :
But doubting to repair to her,
Whom he had banish'd so,
Grew frantick mad; for in his mind

He bore the wounds of woe:

Which made him rend his milk-white locks,

And tresses from his head,

And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
With age and honour spread:"
To hills and woods, and watry founts,"
He made his hourly moan,

Till hills and woods, and senseless things,"
Did seem to sigh and groan.

Even thus possest with discontents,

He passed o'er to France,

In hopes from fair Cordelia there

To find some gentler chance:

Most virtuous dame! which when she heard

Of this her father's grief,

As duty bound, she quickly sent

Him comfort and relief:

And by a train of noble peers,

In brave and gallant sort,

She gave in charge he should be brought

To Aganippus' court;

Whose royal king, with noble mind,

So freely gave consent,

To muster up his knights at arms,
To fame and courage bent.

And so to England came with speed,

To repossess king Leir,

And drive his daughters from their thrones
By his Cordelia dear;

Where she, true-hearted noble queen,

Was in the battle slain :

Yet he, good king, in his old days,

Possest his crown again.

But when he heard Cordelia's death,
Who died indeed for love

Of her dear father, in whose cause,
She did this battle move;
He swooning fell upon her breast,

From whence he never parted:

But on her bosom left his life,

That was so truely hearted.

*This ballad, which by no means deserves a place in any edition of Shakspeare, is evidently a most servile pursuit,-not, indeed, of our author's play,

VOL. XVII.

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