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All the Pride of London City,
That can make young Ladies pretty,

And what the Change affords that's rare,
All shall be, my Dear, for thee,

And none with Peggy shall compare.
Sir, said she, do not endeavour,
The poor Daughter of a Weaver

Has a Heart of Vertuous Mould,
Which no Pride can draw aside,

To be corrupted by your Gold.
Then, said he, Dear Peggy, may be
You'll deny to be a Lady,

How does that now suit your Mind ?
Sir, said she, my low Degree
Is still to humble Thoughts confin'd.
For that, says he, I ne'er will fault thee,
But for Humbleness exalt thee,

Thou this Day my Bride shalt be.
No longer they tarry'd, but strait were marry'd,

And Lady Margaret was she.
You may think her Friends confented,
And that she was well contented,

And I am sure so was the Knight,
For all the Day they sport and play,
But what they did, God knows, at Night.


ልስ ል ል ል ል ል ል ል ል ል ል ል ል ል ል

XXXII. The BRIDE's Burial.

To the Tune of, The Lady's Fall, &c.

The four following Songs(for I shall not trou

ble my Reader with an Introduction to eve
one) are written on Tragical Subjects, and
are far from being the most despicable that
ever were printed; I take 'em all, but the
last especially, to fall under the Number of
those which are written on fome Fact which
has escaped us.
OME mourn, come mourn with me,

You loyal Lovers all,
Lament my Loss in Weeds of Woe,

Whom griping Grief doth thrall.

Like to the drooping Vine,

Cut by the Gardener's Knife,
Even so my Heart, with Sorrow slain,

Doth bleed for my sweet Wife.
By Death, that grisly Ghost,

My Turtle Dove is Nain, And I am left, unhappy Man,

To spend my Days in Pain.

Her Beauty late so bright,

Like Roses in their Prime,
Is wasted like the Mountain's Snow,

By force of Phæbus shine.


Her fair red colour'd Cheeks

Now pale and wan; her Eyes,
That late did shine like Crystal Stars;

Alas, their Light it dies:

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,

Most like a Lilly-flower,
And as the lovely Queen of Heaven,

So shone she in her Bower.

Attired was she then

Like Flora in her Pride,
Like one of bright Diana's Nymphs,

So look'd my loving Bride.

And as fair Helen's Face,

Gave Grecian Dames the Lurch, So did my Dear exceed in Sight,

All Virgins in the Church.

When we had knit the Knot

Of holy Wedlock-band, Like Alabaster joyn'd to Jet,

So stood we Hand in Hand;

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 in a Swoon she fell,

As cold as any Stone;
Like Venus Picture, lacking Life,

So was my Love brought home.

At length her rosy red,

Throughout her comely Face,
As Phæbus Beams with watry Clouds

Was cover'd for a Space.

When with a grievous Groan,

And Voice both hoarse and dry, Farewel, quoth she, my loving Friend,

For I this Day must dye;

The Messenger of God,

With golden Trump I see, With many other Angels more,

Which sound and call for me.

Instead of Mufick sweet,

Go toll my Passing-Bell;
And with sweet Flowers strow my Grave,

That in my Chamber smell :

Strip off my Bride's Array,

My Cork Shoes from my Feet, And, gentle Mother, be not coy

To bring my Winding-sheet.
My Wedding Dinner dress’d,

Bestow upon the Poor,
And on the Hungry, Needy, Maim'd,

Now craving at the Door.

Instead of Virgins young,

My Bride-Bed for to see,
Go cause some curious Carpenter,

To make a Chest for me.


My Bride-Laces of Silk,

Bestow'd on Maidens meet.
May fitly serve, when I am Dead,

To tye my Hands and Feet.

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,

And humbly on your Knee, Direct your Prayers unto God,

But mourn no more for me.

In Love as we have liv'd,

In Love let us depart ; And I, in Token of my Love,

Do kiss thee with my Heart.

O stanch those bootless Tears,

Thy Weeping is in vain ;
I am not lost, for we in Heaven

Shall one Day meet again.

With that she turn'd aside,

As one dispos'd to sleep,
And like a Lamb departed Life,

Whose Friends did sorely weep.

Her true Love seeing this,

Did fetch a grievous Groan,
As tho' his Heart would burst in two,

And thus he made his Moan.

O dismal and unhappy Day,

A Day of Grief and Care,
That hath bereft the Sun so high,

Whose Beams refresh the Air.


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