The Noble and Imprison'd
PROTESTANTS:
OR, A Copy of VERSES on
A Young Lord and Lady, now Prisoners in the Castle of Dublin, under the sharp
and severe Cruelty of the French and Irish Papists.
To the Tune of, I often for my Jenny strove. Licensed according to Order.
|
WHat Protestant can now forbear
|
to shed a true relenting Tear,
|
At the most dismal Grief and Care,
|
of a Renown'd Noble Peer,
|
And his fair and Vertuous Lady,
|
within Castle Walls they lye
|
At Dublin City, Oh 'tis pitty
|
they have not their Liberty!
|
This Noble Lord of high Renown,
|
and his sweet Lady all alone,
|
While Tears like Fountains trickle down,
|
they to each other make their moan;
|
Saying, here we are exposed
|
to Rome's hateful Cruelty,
|
And look each hour they'll Devour
|
both the Lives of thee and me.
|
My Dear, thy fine soft Bed of Down,
|
and Lining too as fine as Lawn,
|
On which to rest we did lye down,
|
with rich Silk Curtains closely drawn,
|
Are turn'd to a noysome Prison,
|
cold, and kept from Liberty;
|
My loving Lady, I am ready
|
hear to break my Heart for thee.
|
I wish thou wert in England, where,
|
my Love, thy Life would be secure,
|
Thy tender Nature cannot bear
|
the Hardship which we hear endure:
|
Kept from Food to nourish Nature,
|
and debarr'd of Liberty,
|
This Winter Season, in a Prison,
|
Love, my Heart will break for thee.
|
The Lady kind and mild reply'd,
|
Be not concern'd for me, my Dear,
|
In thy sweet presence I'll abide,
|
and of thy Sorrows bear a share:
|
There's no Kingodm, Court, or Pallace,
|
or the greatest Liberty,
|
Nor, Gold, nor Treasure, yield me pleasure,
|
if I han't thy Company.
|
My very Heart with Grief would break,
|
shou'd I be from thy presence long,
|
In Courts no Pleasure should I take,
|
while thou art in a Castle strong,
|
None but Enemies about thee,
|
to increase thy misery;
|
What e'er betide me, Heaven guide me,
|
Love, I'll Live and Dye with thee.
|
That Rude Rebellious, Romish Crue,
|
by whom we were in Prison hurl'd,
|
The worst that ever they can do,
|
is but to Rob us of this World,
|
Which is vain and transitory;
|
nothing stedfast here I see,
|
But Heaven's Blessing I'm Possessing,
|
this they cannot take from me.
|
These present Crosses does invite
|
us to a never fading Crown,
|
When as our Souls shall take their flight,
|
above the reach of mortal frown:
|
There's no pains of Purgatory,
|
but all true Felicity;
|
Let nothing grieve thee, I'll not leave thee,
|
but will Live and Dye with thee.
|
|
|
|
|
|