Reliques of Ancient English Poetry consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our earlier Poets, (Chiefly of the Lyric kind.) Together with some few of later Date |
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 | Reliques of Ancient English Poetry |  |
XX. THE LADY DISTRACTED WITH LOVE,
Mad Song the fourth,
[_]
—was originally sung 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. sullenly mad: 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.
From rosie bowers, where sleeps the god of love,
Hither, ye little wanton cupids, fly;
Teach me in soft melodious strains to move
With tender passion my heart's darling joy:
Ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice,
To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.
Hither, ye little wanton cupids, fly;
Teach me in soft melodious strains to move
With tender passion my heart's darling joy:
Ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice,
To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.
360
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.
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:
With an air, and a face,
And a shape, and a grace,
I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.
Were three celestial bodies:
With an air, and a face,
And a shape, and a grace,
I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.
Ah! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain!
Death and despair must end the fatal pain:
Cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rain,
Falls on my breast; bleak winds in tempests blow;
My veins all shiver, and my fingers glow;
My pulse beats a dead march for lost repose,
And to a solid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze.
Death and despair must end the fatal pain:
Cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rain,
Falls on my breast; bleak winds in tempests blow;
My veins all shiver, and my fingers glow;
My pulse beats a dead march for lost repose,
And to a solid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze.
Or say, ye powers, my peace to crown,
Shall I thaw myself, and drown
Among the foaming billows?
Increasing all with tears I shed,
On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows
Lay down, lay down my lovesick head?
Shall I thaw myself, and drown
Among the foaming billows?
Increasing all with tears I shed,
On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows
Lay down, lay down my lovesick head?
No, no, I'll strait run mad, mad, mad,
That soon my heart will warm;
When once the sense is fled, is fled,
Love has no power to charm.
Wild thro' the woods I'll fly, I'll fly,
Robes, locks—shall thus—be tore!
A thousand, thousand times I'll dye
Ere thus, thus, in vain,—ere thus in vain adore.
That soon my heart will warm;
361
Love has no power to charm.
Wild thro' the woods I'll fly, I'll fly,
Robes, locks—shall thus—be tore!
A thousand, thousand times I'll dye
Ere thus, thus, in vain,—ere thus in vain adore.
| Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | |