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

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

And none with Peggy shall compare.

Sir, faid fhe, do not endeavour,
The poor Daughter of a Weaver
Has a Heart of Vertuous Mould,
Which no Pride can draw afide,

To be corrupted by your Gold.

Then, faid he, Dear Peggy, may be
You'll deny to be a Lady,

How does that now fuit your Mind?
Sir, faid fhe, my low Degree

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,
And Lady Margaret was the.

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,
But what they did, God knows, at Night.

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,
You loyal Lovers all,

Lament my Lofs in Weeds of Woe,
Whom griping Grief doth thrall.

Like to the drooping Vine,

Cut by the Gardener's Knife,
Even fo my Heart, with Sorrow flain,
Doth bleed for my sweet Wife.

By Death, that grifly Ghost,
My Turtle Dove is flain,
And I am left, unhappy Man,
To spend my Days in Pain.

Her Beauty late so bright,
Like Rofes in their Prime,

Is wafted like the Mountain's Snow,
By force of Phœbus shine.

Her

Her fair red colour'd Cheeks
Now pale and wan; her Eyes,
That late did fhine 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 fhone fhe 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 Alabafter joyn'd to Jet,
So flood 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

Down in a Swoon fhe fell,
As cold as any Stone;
Like Venus Picture, lacking Life,
So was my Love brought home.

At length her rofy red,

Throughout her comely Face,
As Phœbus Beams with watry Clouds
Was cover'd for a Space.

When with a grievous Groan,
And Voice both hoarse and dry,
Farewel, quoth fhe, my loving Friend,
For I this Day must dye;

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,
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 drefs'd,
Bestow upon the Poor,

And on the Hungry, Needy, Maim'd,
Now craving at the Door.

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,
Beftow'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 kifs thee with my Heart.

O ftanch those bootlefs Tears,
Thy Weeping is in vain ;
I am not loft, for we in Heaven
Shall one Day meet again.

With that the turn'd afide,
As one difpos'd to fleep,

And like a Lamb departed Life,
Whofe Friends did forely weep.

Her true Love feeing 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,

Whofe Beams refresh the Air.

Now