Claraphil and Clarinda in a forrest of fancies. By Tho: Jordan |
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A Song, sung by Mr. Bushel's Miners in Devonshire, written in 1645.
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 | Claraphil and Clarinda |  |
A Song, sung by Mr. Bushel's Miners in Devonshire, written in 1645.
Ladies
of Love and Leisure,
Where is your Greatness gone?
What sudden high displeasure
Hath forc'd ye from your own?
Whilest we live here obscurely
In Cottages unknown,
No Cares of fears
We ever think upon.
Where is your Greatness gone?
What sudden high displeasure
Hath forc'd ye from your own?
Whilest we live here obscurely
In Cottages unknown,
No Cares of fears
We ever think upon.
Our VVals are highest Mountains
For we live in a Coomb;
We drink of flowing Fountains,
Our dwelling is our Tomb,
Nor look to be exalted
Before the Day of Doom,
Where Scibes, for Bribes,
Shall nere deny us Room.
For we live in a Coomb;
Our dwelling is our Tomb,
Nor look to be exalted
Before the Day of Doom,
Where Scibes, for Bribes,
Shall nere deny us Room.
We hear a dreadfull Summons,
Up in the high Country,
Our gracious King and Commons
They say cannot agree;
This Harvest is for Cedars,
And no such Shrubs as we,
Yet still we will
Pray for a Unity.
Up in the high Country,
Our gracious King and Commons
They say cannot agree;
This Harvest is for Cedars,
And no such Shrubs as we,
Yet still we will
Pray for a Unity.
The Day we spend in working,
And chanting harmless Songs,
No Malice here lies lurking,
Our thoughts are free from Wrongs;
And those that Civil Wars do love,
We wish they had no Tongues,
No Drums, no Guns,
Or what to War belongs.
And chanting harmless Songs,
No Malice here lies lurking,
Our thoughts are free from Wrongs;
And those that Civil Wars do love,
We wish they had no Tongues,
No Drums, no Guns,
Or what to War belongs.
We wound the Earths hard bowels,
Where hidden Treasure grows,
With Twibell, Sledge, and Trowells,
Pick-ax, and Iron Crows,
We search for sinfull Silver,
Which all Dissention sows,
Their Health and Wealth
Men do so ill dispose.
Where hidden Treasure grows,
With Twibell, Sledge, and Trowells,
Pick-ax, and Iron Crows,
We search for sinfull Silver,
Which all Dissention sows,
Men do so ill dispose.
We eat the Bread of Labor,
And what Endeavour brings,
Sorrow is no next-Neighbour.
Our Eyes they are no Springs;
Unless we shed a tear or two,
When as we pity Kings,
The Fates of States
To us are Hebrew things.
And what Endeavour brings,
Sorrow is no next-Neighbour.
Our Eyes they are no Springs;
Unless we shed a tear or two,
When as we pity Kings,
The Fates of States
To us are Hebrew things.
| Claraphil and Clarinda | |