The Cook-Maid's Tragedy:
OR, THE
Loyal LOVER's Overthrow:
BEING
An Account of MARY a Cook-Maid in Covent Garden;
who Poyson'd herself in Dispair, for the Love of THOMAS a
Coach-man.
To the Tune of, If Love's a Sweet Passion.
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O Treacherous Lovers, what do intend?
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Will your flattering Cruelties ne'er have end?
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Must we hear of new Tragedies every day,
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As the innocent Lovers you still do betray?
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Do but think of the Passion which they do sustain,
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When they felt themselves wounded by Darts of Disdain.
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The Grief being more than they're able to bear,
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Straight they languish and lye at the point of Dispair;
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Still contriving their sorrowful Lives to distroy,
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Being certain they ne'er shall the Blessing enjoy.
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Therefore false-hearted Lovers pray think of their pain,
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When alas! they lay wounded by Darts of Disdain.
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Amongst all the Tragical Stories we find,
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There was never young Lover more false and unkind,
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Than the Coachman, Brisk Thomas, who woo'd the Cook-maid,
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Whom he slighted so soon as her heart was betray'd:
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Let him think of the sorrows which she did sustain,
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When she felt herself wounded with Darts of Disdain.
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At fair Covent-garden these Lovers did live,
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Where he courted kind Mary until she did give
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Him a promise, That none should enjoy her but he,
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Then a Treacherous Lover he proved to be:
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Let him think of that torment which she did sustain,
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When she found herself wounded with Darts of Disdain.
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[Alas, my] Dear Thomas, she often would cry,
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[There's non]e in the World more Unhappy than I:
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[I'm deserted] and left to bemoan my sad Fate,
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[Tho' you s]eemed to love and admire of late,
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[O think of the] Passion which here I sustain,
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[Thou hast my he]art wounded with Darts of Disdain.
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I find that I cannot my Passion endure,
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I will seek out, with speed, for an absolute Cure.
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It is better to die, than thus languish in grief,
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I will hasten my Death, through the hopes of Relief.
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He too late may remember what I did sustain,
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While in Love I lay wounded by Darts of Disdain.
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I hear have prepar'd a sad Portion to take,
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For, alas, now, the World I can freely forsake.
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As I hasten my Death through the Torments of Love,
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Ah! forgive me, forgive me, ye Powers above!
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And let Thomas remember the grief I sustain,
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While I here have lain wounded with Darts of Disdain.
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Thus taking this Dose of strong Poyson she lay
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In a dismal Condition, till late the next day,
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When at last, as expiring, with tears she did crave,
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That they would but afford her, a true Christian Grave.
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Which at length being granted, her breath she resign'd,
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And hath left her false Treacherous Lover behind.
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What Vows he had made to this Creature alone,
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Unto God and his Conscience, alas, 'tis best known;
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It is true, he may flourish and laugh for a space,
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But when Conscience in fury shall flye in his face,
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He to late may remember what she did sustain,
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When in Griefs she lay wounded by Darts of Disdain.
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FINIS.
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