( 7 )
O little did this Lady think,
that morning when she raise,
It was to be the very last,
of all her maiden days.
But there is not in the King’s realm,
to be found a blyther twa:
And now they ly into ae bed,
and she lies next the wa’.
BESS OF BEDLAM.
To its own proper Tune.
SEE, see poor Bess of bedlam,
in mourning plight and sadness,
I shake my chains, & wreck my brains
in all extremes of madness.
How sharp’s the pointed arrow
which flew at my poor breast!
In mischief dipp’d and venom steep’d,
that broke my peaceful rest.
With love my soul is flaming,
nought my sorrows hinder;
My pulse beats high, I scorch and fry,
my heart burns to a cinder.
My eye-balls roll and wander,
methinks I now behold him;
I’ll stretch my arms to meet his charms
but alas ! I can’t enfold him.
