3
Awake, ſhe ery'd, thy true love calls
come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid,
thy love refu'd to ſave.
This is the dark and f a ful hour,
wheu injur'd ghoſts complain,
Now dreary graves give up their dead,
to heat the faith'eſs swain.
Bethink slice Wiliam, of thy fault,
thy pledge and brakes sath,
And give me back her maiden vow,
and give us back my troth.
How could you ſay my face was fair,
and yet that ſrce forthske?
How could yap win my virgin heart,
yet leave that heart to break,
How could you promiſe love to me,
and eat that promiſe keep?
Why did you ſwear my eyes were bright,
yet leave the eyes to weep?
How cou'd you ſay my lps were red;
and made the ſcarlet pale?
And why did I young witleſs maid,
believe your flattering tale?
That face, a'as,! no more is fair;
those lips no longer red,
