Love in a Mist;
A loving Couple once together met,
And changing words, a Passion did beget:
A Mist before my eyes I have, quoth she,
What dost thou mean, my Boy, to do with me:
To the Tune of, Hey boys up go we.
|
A Thumping lusty Country Lad,
|
was tripping o're the Plain,
|
And meeting with a hansome Maid,
|
some talk did entertain:
|
Quoth he, thou art exceeding fair,
|
thou dost my heart surprize,
|
Quoth she, I prithee have a care,
|
There's a mist before mine eyes.
|
Now is my heart thine own, quoth he,
|
so beautiful thou art,
|
That I must needs thy Captive be,
|
I feel such deadly smart:
|
Quoth she, if thou but Loyal prove,
|
i'le not thy love despise,
|
For I am almost fall'n in love,
|
With a mist before mine eyes.
|
Said he, my love it is intire,
|
I love thee as my life,
|
If thou wilt grant me my desire,
|
then thou shalt be my wife:
|
Imbracing her, he laid her down,
|
and just as down she lies,
|
I pray thee now my fancy Crown,
|
Though a mist's before mine eyes.
|
TO work they went immediately,
|
he touch'd her to the quick,
|
And so did please her Fantasie,
|
with this same pritty trick:
|
Quoth she, that Maid is surely mad,
|
that this same sport denies,
|
When she meets with a lusty Lad,
|
Though a mist's before her eyes.
|
Thus kissing and imbracing too,
|
upon the Green they lay,
|
She cry'd, I have not yet my due,
|
come let us longer play:
|
This is the prittiest kind of Trade,
|
that Love did e're devise,
|
Sure it is Cupid that hath made,
|
This mist before mine eyes.
|
A gentle fire within my breast,
|
methinks I now do feel,
|
The pleasure cannot be exprest,
|
no tongue can it reveal:
|
But if I were a Maid again,
|
I should my self despise,
|
'Tis pritty sport I tell you plain,
|
Though a mist's before mine eyes.
|
My Mother she was much too blame,
|
to me so much perswade,
|
Never to mind this pleasant Game,
|
but still to live a Maid:
|
For when she tells me so again,
|
her Counsel i'le despise,
|
I cannot see i'le tell her plain,
|
There's a mist before mine eyes.
|
Come let us try the tother touch,
|
for I have not enough,
|
She that doth at this pastime grutch,
|
doth sure mistake the stuff:
|
And as he entred then the Fort,
|
mighty sweet, she crys,
|
Oh who would think this pritty sport
|
Casts mists before mine eyes.
|
She put this Youngster to his Trumps
|
till he began to blow,
|
But up and down she briskly jumps,
|
for sometimes 'twill be so:
|
Quoth she, i'le never after miss,
|
such opportunities,
|
For this is perfect Lovers bliss,
|
With a mist before mine eyes.
|
At last he forc'd was to retire,
|
which caused her to frown,
|
He hop'd that he had cool'd her fire;
|
and as he laid her down,
|
He thought it would good manners be,
|
again to see her rise:
|
And thou, quoth she, hast cured me,
|
Of the mist before mine eyes.
|
|
|
|
|
|