8
Although that I am but a weaver's daughter,
I think as much of myself, she cried,
As those who make it their whole endeavour
To kiss for gold, and in coaches ride;
Their cheeks are painted, their bodies tainted,
Prove the bad effects of their wanton love;
But until death I'll tarry—unless that I marry,
There are none on earth my ruin shall prove.
The London youth he stood amaz'd,
And for a season nothing said;
All on her amorous beauty gaz'd,
At length to her these words he said:—
I was in France—ay, and in Flanders,
And all around this fine Irish shore;
I met with ladies and great commanders,
But a match for Nancy I ne'er saw before.
Her friends and neighbours wore all acquainted
Of this great match that was in hands,
The wedding-day it was appointed,
He crown’d his love with house and lands.
Mirth and weavers, pipes and tabors,
Great joy he had for to crown his love,
That day they wedded—and at night they bedded,
And a loving couple they did prove.
