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