With Daniel she did dance, Phillada flouts me! Fair maid, be not so coy, Do not disdain me! I am my mother's joy, Sweet, entertain me! She'll give me, when she dies, All that is fitting; Her poultry, and her bees, And her geese sitting; A pair of mattress beds, And a bag full of shreds; And yet for all this goods Phillada flouts me! She hath a clout of mine, Wrought with good Coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity. And yet it grieves my heart So soon from her to part! Death strikes me with his dart! Phillada flouts me! Thou shalt eat curds and cream All the year lasting; And drink the crystal stream, Pleasant in tasting: Whig and whey, whilst thou burst, Pears, plumbs, and cherry; Fair maiden, have a care, One throws milk on my clothes, I cannot work and sleep All at a season; I 'gin to pine away, With grief and sorrow, Penned in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear, Phillada flouts me! VOL. V. ANONYMOUS. II LANGUISHING LYRICS; OR, THE LAMENTABLE LOVES OF THE LACRIMOSE LORD AND THE LUGUBRIOUS LADY. The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow. Shakspeare. A DAMSEL there was, and her surname was Thrope, And her only amusement was to vex, This sorrowful damsel, Miss Ann Thrope, As soon in the morn as her eyes did ope, For her highest luxury was to grieve, Such sentimentality Miss Ann Thrope So she studied to mumble, mump, and mope, The joys of the world she turn'd into woes, And whenever she stoop'd to pluck a rose, She took care to scratch her unfortunate nose(Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!) By smelling too near to the briar. Sure nobody else but Miss Ann Thrope And go out of their road for griefs to grope, But she in a tombstone made her bed, And with dying speeches bothered her head(Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!) Till she sent her brains astray. When my Lord came wooing to Miss Ann Thrope, He was just a Childe from school; He paid his addresses in a Trope, And call'd her pretty Bul-bul. But she knew not in the modern scale, (Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!) As sweet as a fresh blown Gûl. Then he sent a love-sonnet to Miss Ann Thrope, Four stanzas of elegant woe. The letters were cut in a comical slope, With Ζωη με σας αγαπω. 'Twas all about rivals and ruins and racks; The bearer was dress'd in a new suit of blacks; The paper was sable, and so was the wax(Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!) And his pen was the quill of a crow. What queer looking words—thought Miss Ann To tag at the tail of a distich! So she clapp'd her eye to a microscope, To get at their sense cabalistic. [Thrope, He swore in the Hellespont he'd fall, If she would not go with him to Istambol; But all she would answer was, tol de rol lol— (O Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!) To his lordship's rhymes Hellenistic. Then the peer he said—Oh Miss Ann Thrope, Since life is a fading flower, You'll do me the favour to elope With your own dear faithful Giaour. And as for your father and mother and aunt, The family all I will enchant, By reading of a Romaic Romaunt (Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!) Till they shed of tears a shower. His lordship he read:-and Miss Ann Thrope But as the poetry seemed rather sop orific, she dozed a bit. Till,quite overwhelm'd with slumber and sorrow, A yawn or two she begged leave to borrowAnd said if he'd call again to-morrow(Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!) He might read a second Fytte. He read till he wept;-but Miss Ann Thrope She call'd him a Jew, and wished the Pope |