All the Pride of London City, And what the Change affords that's rare, And none with Peggy shall compare. Sir, faid fhe, do not endeavour, To be corrupted by your Gold. Then, faid he, Dear Peggy, may be How does that now fuit your Mind? Is ftill to humble Thoughts confin'd. For that, fays he, I ne'er will fault thee, But for Humbleness exalt thee, Thou this Day my Bride fhalt be. No longer they tarry'd, but ftrait were marry'd, You may think her Friends confented, And that she was well contented, And I am fure fo was the Knight, For all the Day they sport and play, XXXII. The AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA XXXII. The BRIDE's Burial. To the Tune of, The Lady's Fall, &c. The four following Songs (for I shall not trouble my Reader with an Introduction to every one) are written on Tragical Subjects, and are far from being the most defpicable that ever were printed; I take 'em all, but the laft efpecially, to fall under the Number of thofe which are written on fome Fact which has efcaped us. Co OME mourn, come mourn with me, Lament my Lofs in Weeds of Woe, Like to the drooping Vine, Cut by the Gardener's Knife, By Death, that grifly Ghost, Her Beauty late so bright, Is wafted like the Mountain's Snow, Her Her fair red colour'd Cheeks Her pretty Lilly Hands, With Fingers long and small, In Colour like the earthly Clay, Yea, Cold and Stiff withal. When as the Morning-Star Her golden Gates had spread, And that the glittering Sun arose Forth from fair Thetis Bed; Then did my Love awake, And as the lovely Queen of Heaven, Attired was she then Like Flora in her Pride, Like one of bright Diana's Nymphs, And as fair Helen's Face, Gave Grecian Dames the Lurch, When we had knit the Knot Then lo! a chilling Cold Struck every vital Part, And griping Grief, like Pangs of Death, Seiz'd on my true Love's Heart. Down Down in a Swoon fhe fell, At length her rofy red, Throughout her comely Face, When with a grievous Groan, The Meffenger of God, With golden Trump I fee, With many other Angels more, Which found and call for me. Instead of Musick sweet, Go toll my Paffing-Bell; And with sweet Flowers ftrow my Grave, Strip off my Bride's Array, My Cork Shoes from my Feet, My Wedding Dinner drefs'd, And on the Hungry, Needy, Maim'd, Inftead of Virgins young, My Bride-Bed for to fee, Go cause fome curious Carpenter, To make a Cheft for me. My My Bride-Laces of Silk, May fitly serve, when I am Dead, And thou, my Lover true, My Husband and my Friend, Let me entreat thee here to stay, Until my Life doth end. Now leave to talk of Love, In Love as we have liv'd, O ftanch those bootlefs Tears, With that the turn'd afide, And like a Lamb departed Life, Her true Love feeing this, Did fetch a grievous Groan, As tho' his Heart would burst in two, O dismal and unhappy Day, A Day of Grief and Care, That hath bereft the Sun so high, Whofe Beams refresh the Air. Now |