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With Daniel she did dance,
On me she look'd askance,
Oh, thrice unhappy chance!

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.
But i'faith, if she flinch,

She shall not wear it;
To Tibb, my t'other wench,

I mean to bear it.
And yet it grieves my heart
So soon from her to part!
Death strikes me with his dart!

Phillada filouts 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,

And ramble berry,
Pie-lid and pastry crust,

Pears, plumbs, and cherry;
Thy raiment shall be thin,
Made of a weaver's skin,-
Yet, all's not worth a pin!

Phillada flouts me!
Fair maiden, have a care,

And in time take me !
I can have those as fair,

If you forsake me:
For Doll the dairymaid

Laughed on me lately,
And wanton Winifred

Favours me greatly.
One throws milk on my clothes,
Tother plays with my nose:
What wanton signs are those!

Phillada filouts me!
I cannot work and sleep

All at a season;
Love wounds my heart so deep,

Without all reason.
I’gin to pine away,

With grief and sorrow,
Like to a fatted beast

Penned in a meadow.
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within this thousand year,
And all for very fear!
Phillada flouts me!








The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow,


A DAMSEL there was, and her surname was Thrope,

And her christian name was Ann;
Few lovers had she for her favours to hope,

For she was a bater of man;-
And heartily she detested the sex,
And her only amusement was to vex,

And every thought of pleasure perplex ;(Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope !)

On the penserosa plan.
This sorrowful damsel, Miss Ann Thrope,

Thought laughter a mortal sin;
As soon in the morn as her eyes did ope,

To weep they did begin.
For her highest luxury was to grieve,
And in company to cry in her sleeve;

And as long as her shadow lengthen’d at eve(Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope !)

She was sure to lengthen her chin.
Such sentimentality Miss Ann Thrope

Expected all would admire;
So she studied to mumble, mump, and mope,

Like a cat by the kitchen fire.

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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

In sorrow would waste the day,
And go out of their road for griefs to grope,

When so many are in the way.
But she in a tombstone made her bed,
And epitaphs all night she read,

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,
That a couple of Bulls was a Nightingale ;

So full in his face she turn'd her tail (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 αγαπώ» '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! [Thrope, So she clapp'd her eye to a microscope,

To get at their sense cabalistic.
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

Was obliged to praise his wit; 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 borrow

And 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

Declared it was all my eye;
She call'd him a Jew, and wished the Pope

Had his Hebrew melody.

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