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Thou art the doe, that I must dreffe ;

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And curfed bee the mafter-cook,

O curfed may he bee!

I proffered him my own hearts blood,

From death to fet her free.

Then all in blacke this lord did mourne;

And for his daughters fake,

He judged her cruell step-mothèr

To be burnt at a stake.

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Likewife he judg'd the mafter-cook

In boiling lead to stand;

And made the fimple fcullion-boye

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The heire of all his land.

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From Ben Jonson's Mafque at the marriage of lord viftount Hadington, on Shrove-Tuesday 1608. One ftanza full of dry mythology we have omitted, as we found it dropt in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called Le Prince d'amour. Lond. 1660." 8vo.

EAUTIES, have yee feen a toy,

Be called Love, a little boy,

Almoft naked, wanton, blinde;
Cruel now; and then as kinde?
If he be amongst yee, fay;
He is Venus' run-away.

Shee, that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiffe,
How and where herfelfe would wish:
But, who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiffe, and another.

Markes he hath about him plentie :
You may know him, among twentie.
All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire:

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Which being shot, fike lightning, in
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

Wings he hath, which though yee clip,
He will leape from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart,
Yet not stay in any part.

And, if chance his arrow miffes,
He will shoot himselfe in kiffes.

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Truft him not: his words, though sweet,
Seldome with his heart doe meet,

All his practice is deceit ;

Everie gift is but a bait.

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Not

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If by these yee please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but fhow him.
Though yee had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him,
Since yee heare this falfer's play,

And that he is Venus' run-away.

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XVII.

THE KING OF FRANCE's DAUGHTER.

From the Editor's ancient folio MS. collated with an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, intitled, " An ex"cellent Ballad of a prince of England's courtship to the king

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of France's daughter, &c. To the tune of Crimson Velvet." Many breaches having been made in this old fong by the band of time, principally (as might be expected) in the quick returns of the rhime; we have attempted to repair them.

IN

N the dayes of old,
When faire France did flourish,

VOL. I.

M

Storves

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