( 5 )
Why was I born, to be forlorn,
under ⟨the⟩ frowns of tyranny.
O Bedlam’s porter, be my comforter,
and from this dungeon set me free,
Or bring me to my dearest jewel,
that I once more his face may see.
In deep despair, this lady fair,
in Bedlam died as I heard say,
On that very night her faithful lover,
in biscay-bay was cast away.
With lamentation and great vexation,
her mother cry’d my child is dead,
I’ve prov’d her ruin and sad undoing,
this day her blood lies on my head.
Is gold and grandeur such an honour,
that is my piece of mind destroys,
True love I find it is much better,
than any of such empty toys.
My wit is cracked, with grief distracted,
my mind rune like the raging waves,
When I think on these loyal lovers,
who now lie in their silent graves.
The LASS with the Delicate Air.
YOung Molly that lives at the foot of a hill,
Whose fame every virgin with envy does fill,
Of beauty is blest of so ample a share,
That men call her the lass with the delicate air,
with the delicate air,
That men call her the lass with the delicate air.
One morning last May I traversed the grove,
In thoughtless retirement not dreaming of love,
There I chanced to spy the dear nymph I declare,
And really she’d got a most delicate air,
Most delicate air, &c.
