The Mad Mans Morrice.
Wherin you shall finde
His trouble and grief, and discontent of his minde,
A warning to yong men to have a care,
How they in love intangled are.
To a pleasant new Tune.
|
HEard you not lately of a man,
|
That went beside his wits,
|
And naked through the streets he ran,
|
Wrapt in his frantick fits?
|
My honest neighbours it is I,
|
Hark how the people flout me:
|
See where the mad man comes they cry,
|
With all the Boyes about me.
|
Into a pond stark nak'd I ran
|
And cast my clothes away Sir,
|
Without the help of any man
|
Made shift to run away Sir,
|
How I got out, I have forgot,
|
I do not well remember,
|
Or whether it was cold or hot,
|
In June, or in December,
|
Tom Bedlam's but a Sage to me,
|
I speak in sober sadnesse,
|
For more strange visions do I see,
|
Then he in all his madnesse,
|
When first this chance to me befell,
|
About the market walkt I,
|
With Capons feathers in my cap,
|
And to myself thus talkt I.
|
Did you not see my Love of late,
|
Like Titan in her glory?
|
Do you not know she is my mate,
|
And I must write her story,
|
With pen of gold on silver leafe,
|
I will so much befriend her;
|
For why, I am of this belief,
|
None can so well commend her.
|
Saw you not Angels in her eys,
|
While that she was a speaking,
|
Smelt you not smels like Paradise,
|
Between two Rubies breaking?
|
Is not her hair more pure then gold,
|
Or finest Spiders spinning?
|
Me thinks, in her I do behold,
|
My joys and woes beginning.
|
Is not a dimple in her cheek,
|
Each eye a star thats starting,
|
Is not all grace install'd in her,
|
Each step all joys imparting?
|
Me thinks I see her in a Cloud,
|
With graces round about her:
|
To them I cry and call alowd
|
I cannot live without her.
|
|
|
|
|
|