Ere I open my door to thee,
And thy suit of hell to Sir Gervase I’ll tell,
And a traitor’s death thou wilt die.”
‘“Then fare ye well, Dame Isabel,
Thou lady of mickle pride;
Thou shalt rue the day thou saidst me nay,
When back to thee I ride.”
‘The day declined, the rising wind
Sung shrill on Whitby sands;
With ear down laid, and ready blade,