THE
Third Part of the Baffl'd Knight:
OR,
The Witty Lady's new Intreague, by which she
left him fetter'd in his Boots. Where he lay all Night in her
Father's Park, Cursing his woful Misfortune.
To the Tune of, The Baffl'd Knight.
|
The baffl'd Knight was fool'd once more,
|
you'll find by this pleasant ditty,
|
For she whose charms he did adore
|
is wonderful sharp and witty.
|
Returning from her father's park,
|
just close by a summer-bower,
|
She chanc'd to meet her angry spark,
|
who gave her a frowning lower.
|
The thoughts of what she twice had done,
|
did cause him to draw his rapier,
|
And at the lady then he run,
|
and thus he bagan to vapour:
|
You chous'd me at your father's gate,
|
then tumbl'd me into the river;
|
I seek for satisfaction straight;
|
shall I be a fool for ever!
|
He came with resolution bent
|
that evening to enjoy her;
|
And if she did not give consent
|
that minute he would destroy her.
|
I pray sir Knight, and why so hot
|
again a young silly woman?
|
Such crimes as these might be forgot,
|
for merry intreagues are common.
|
What do you count it mirth, he cry'd,
|
to tumble me in and leave me,
|
What if I drownded there had dy'd,
|
a dangerous jest, believe me.
|
Well, if I pardon you this day
|
those injuries out of measure,
|
It is because without delay
|
I mean to enjoy the pleasure.
|
Your suit, she said, is not deny'd,
|
but think of your boots of leather,
|
And let me pull them off, she cry'd,
|
before we lye down together.
|
He set him down upon the grass,
|
and violets so sweet and tender;
|
Now by this means it came to pass,
|
that she did his purpose hinder.
|
For having pull'd his boots halfway,
|
she cry'd, I am now your betters;
|
You shall not make of me your prey
|
sit there like a thief in fetters.
|
Now finding she had serv'd him so,
|
he rise and began to grumble;
|
Yet he could neither stand nor go,
|
but did like a cripple tumble.
|
The boots stuck fast, and would not stir,
|
his folly she soon did mention,
|
And laughing said, I pray kind sir,
|
how like you my new invention?
|
My laughing sir you must excuse,
|
you are but a stingless-nettle;
|
You'd ne'er a stood for boots or shooes,
|
had you been a man of mettle.
|
Farewel sir Knight, 'tis almost ten,
|
I fear neither wind nor weather;
|
I'll send my father's serving-men
|
to pull off your boots of leather.
|
She laugh'd out right, as well she might
|
with merry conceits of scorning,
|
And left him there to sit all night
|
until the approaching morning.
|
|
|
|
|
|