A Song in Ridicule of a famous Musician, who
was caught serenading his Mistress with his Base-Viol, in a very frosty Night.
Look down, fair Garretteer, bestow
One Glance upon your Swain,
Who stands below, in Frost and Snow,
And shaking, sings in Pain.
Thaw, with your Eyes, the frozen Street,
Or cool my hot Desire;
I burn within, altho' my Feet
Are numb'd for want of Fire.
Chorus, the Viol leading.
Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
Come, come, come, come,
My dearest be not coy;
For if you are, (Zit, zan, zounds) I
Must without your Favours die.
Behold me from your lofty Tow'r,
And, to your Lover, shew
Your Charms; and when it's in my Pow'r,
I'll be as kind to you.
Hither I came, with joyful Speed,
And fear'd no freezing Wind;
But as the Saint at Troas did,
Have left my Cloak behind.
Chorus.
Thrum, &c.
My Dear, would you but open wide
The Casement with your Hand,
My Fiddle, and my self beside,
Should be at your Command.
Could I behold you in your Smock,
Tho' dark, the lusheous View
Would then embolden me to knock,
And ask you how you do.
Chorus.
Thrum, &c.
Or would you open but the Door,
As I have done my Case,
I've sweeter Instruments in Store,
To play a thorough Base.
But since you're coy, I know not what
To farther sing or say,
My Love, 'tis true, is very hot,
Yet I'm too cold to stay.
Chorus at going off.
Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
Home, home, home, home,
I hate a Whore that's coy;
But since you are, (Zit, zan, zounds) I
Must without your Favours die.
