20
Tixall Poetry.
You were my fate; the needle was your dart,
The thrid my life, the camberick my hart.
Ah, too, too late I now can call to mind
Why you such choyce of strings prepar'd to bind
Your slave; and lest I scapd before I dide,
You still complained the stocks were made too wide.
Yet twas not hansome, ladys such as you,
Though you might wound and binde, to cufe me too.
The thrid my life, the camberick my hart.
Ah, too, too late I now can call to mind
Why you such choyce of strings prepar'd to bind
Your slave; and lest I scapd before I dide,
You still complained the stocks were made too wide.
Yet twas not hansome, ladys such as you,
Though you might wound and binde, to cufe me too.
