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THE LUNATIC LOVER,
MAD SONG THE THIRD,
is given from an old printed copy in the British Museum, compared with another in the Depys collection; both in black letter,
RIM king of the ghosts, make hafte,
And bring hither all your train;
And just now is in the wane.
And revelling witches away,
To you my respects I'll pay.
I'll court you, and think you fair,
Since love does distract my brain :
And kiss her, and kiss her again :
But if she prove peevish and proud,
Then, a pise on her love ! let her go ; I'll seek me a winding shroud,
And down to the shades below.
A lunacy fad I endure,
Since reason departs away ; I call to those hags for a cure
As knowing not what I say. The beauty, whom I do adore,
Now slights me with scorn and disdain ; I never shall see her more ;
Ah! how shall I bear my pain!
I ramble, and range about
To find out my charming faint; While she at my grief does flout,
And smiles at my loud complaint. Diftraction I see is my doom,
Of this I am now too sure; A rival is got in mytoom,
While torments I do endure.
Strange fancies do fill my head,
While wandering in despair, I am to the defaris lead,
Expecting to find her there,
To the elysian shades I post
In hopes to be freed from care,
Is hovering in the air.
THE LADY DISTRACTED WITH LOVE,
MAD SONG THE FOURTH,
was originally fing in one of Tom D'URFEY's comedies of Don Quixote acted in 1694 and 1696; and probably composed by himself. In the several stanzas, the author represents his pretty Mad-woman as 1. fuddenly mat: 2. mirthfully mad : 3. melancholy mad: 4. fantastically mad: and 5. stark mad. Both this, and Num. XXII. are printed from D'urfey's “ Pills to purge Melancholy,' 1719, vol. I.
ROM rosie bowers, where sleeps thie god of love,
Hither ye little wanton cupids fly;
With tender pallion my heart's darling joy:
Or, if more influencing
Is to be brisk and airy, With a step and a bound, With a frisk from the ground,
I'll trip like any fairy.
As once on Ida dancing
Were three celestial bodies :
I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.
Ah ! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain!
My pulse beats a dead march for loft repose,
Or say, ye powers, my peace to crown,
Among the foaming billows ?
On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows,
No, no, l'll ftrait run mad, mad, mad,
That foon my heart will warm;