XVIII.

“Go, Frayle, to thy book and to thy beads; With dame or damsel nought concerns thee more. Off to thy cloister, breviary, and weeds, Or straight we’ll drive thee forth with lusty oar, Laid on thy shoulders till no bull shall roar On Guetaría’s plain more loud than thou. The peerless lily, Doña Isidor, Whom thou so madly lov’dst, is buried now In Santiago’s green, where lilies o’er her bow.”