A Rare Example of a Vertuous Maid in Paris.
who was by her own Mother procured to be put in Prison, thinking
thereby to compel her to Popery; but she continued
to the end, and finished her Life in the Fire.
Tune is, O man in desperation.
|
IT was a Ladies Daughter,
|
of Paris properly,
|
Her Mother her commanded
|
to Mass that she should hie:
|
O pardon me dear Mother,
|
her daughter dear did say,
|
Unto that filthy Idol,
|
I never can obey.
|
With weeping and wailing,
|
her Mother then did go,
|
To assemble her kinsfolks,
|
that they the truth may know,
|
Who being then assembled,
|
they did this Maiden call,
|
And put her into prison,
|
to fear her there withal.
|
But where they thought to fear her,
|
she did most strong endure,
|
Although her years was tender,
|
her faith was firm and sure,
|
She weigh'd not their allurements,
|
she fear'd not fiery flame,
|
She hop'd through Christ her Saviour,
|
to have immortal fame.
|
Before the Judge they brought her,
|
thinking that she would turn,
|
And there she was condemned,
|
in fire for to burn,
|
Instead of Golden Bracelets,
|
with Cords they bound her fast,
|
My God grant me with patience
|
(quoth she) to dye at last.
|
And on the morrow after,
|
which was her dying day,
|
They stript this silly Damsel,
|
out of her rich array,
|
Her chain of Gold so costly,
|
away from her they take,
|
And she again most joyfully,
|
did all the world forsake.
|
Unto the place of Torment,
|
they brought her speedily,
|
With heart and mind most constant
|
she willing was to dye,
|
But seeing many Ladies,
|
assembled in that place,
|
These words she then pronounced,
|
lamenting of their case.
|
You Ladies of this City,
|
mark well my words (quoth she)
|
Although I shall be burned,
|
yet do not pitty me,
|
Yourselves I rather pitty,
|
I weep for your decay,
|
Amend your time fair Ladies,
|
and do no time delay.
|
Then came her Mother weeping,
|
her daughter to behold,
|
And in her hand she brought her,
|
a book covered with Gold:
|
Throw hence, quoth she, that Idol,
|
convey it from my sight,
|
And bring me hither my Bible,
|
wherein I take delight.
|
But my distressed Mother.
|
why weep you? be content,
|
You have to death delivered me,
|
most like an innocent,
|
Tormentor do thine Office,
|
on me when thou think'st best
|
But God my Heavenly Father,
|
will bring my soul to rest.
|
But O my aged Father,
|
where-ever thou dost lye,
|
Thou know'st not thy poor Daughter,
|
is ready for to dye;
|
But yet amongst the Angels,
|
in Heaven I hope to dwell,
|
Therefore my loving Father,
|
I bid thee now farewel.
|
Farewel likewise my Mother,
|
adieu my Friends also,
|
God grant that you by others,
|
may never feel such woe,
|
Forsake your Superstition,
|
the cause of mortal strife,
|
Imbrace Gods true Religion,
|
for which I loose my life.
|
When all these words were ended,
|
then came the Man of Death,
|
Who kindled soon a fire,
|
which stopt this Virgins breath
|
To Christ her only Saviour,
|
she did her Soul commend,
|
Farewel (quoth she) good people,
|
and thus she made an end.
|
|
|
|
|
|