A
New Copy of Verses
CALL'D
The Heiress's Lamentation:
OR,
Pity too Late.
To the Tune of, The Torments of a Long Dispair.
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I
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YE Happy, happy Nimphs around,
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That hear my Mournful Story,
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Whose Breasts it does with Pity wound;
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Take warning I implore ye:
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Had I but sooner seen my Fate,
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I might have sav'd my Ruin,
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But like fond Girls, I find too late,
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The cause of my Undoing.
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II.
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If Pity be the Virgins part?
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Their Nature's soft and moving;
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Why then had I so hard a Heart
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To One so Kind and Loving?
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Distracting Thoughts my Fate attends,
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All other Men will shun me:
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Oh! cruel Laws, more cruel Friends,
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Why have ye thus undone me?
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III
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Alas! what is my Fortune now?
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Each Fop will look above me;
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Pretenders I may have enow,
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But none that e'er will love me,
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Like those by Ignorance betray'd,
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I'm driven to Repentance,
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To live a Wretched ruin'd Maid,
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Is my unpitied sentence.
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IV.
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Some strictness Modesty allows,
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To guard us from our Ruin,
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But I alas! have no Excuse,
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He sought not my Undoing;
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With tender Sighs (to be his Wife,)
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And constancy did Woe me,
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But I ungratefull took his Life,
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What Vengeance must pursue me?
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V
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Methinks in the Elizium shades,
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Where injur'd Lovers tarry,
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He there my Treachery upbraids,
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My cruel Marks does carry;
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'Revenge, revenge my Wrongs (he crys)
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that Perfidious Woman;
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'Ye fates for her new Wrath devise,
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Punishments uncommon.
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VI.
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'As Pity once was to her Breast,
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Peace become a Stranger,
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'Let Ghastly Thoughts desturb her Rest,
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fright her still with danger;
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'When Time my Injuries shall clear,
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all Mankind defame her:
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'May all with Joy, her Sorrows hear,
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none with pity name her.
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VII.
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Such Cruel dismal Sounds are these,
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My waking Thoughts discover,
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And when with Sleep my Griefs I'd ease,
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His strangled Ghost does hover
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About my Couch; methinks it flies
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With open Arms, to have me,
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'You are my Lawful Wife, he crys,
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Power on Earth shall save ye.
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VIII.
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Then waking from the sad Surprize,
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I trembling, gaze around me,
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And tho' no Ghosts, alas! there is:
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My Conscience serves to wound me.
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Wou'd I had been some home-bred Lass,
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Brought up in humble Doing;
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For Riches is the Cause, alas!
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Of my Eternal Ruin.
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IX.
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Ye Brittish Maids, take my Advice,
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And not for Int'rest Marry,
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Let not Merit rule your Choice,
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Lest ye like me Miscarry;
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My Fortune I was loath to give,
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Tho' he by Love had won me,
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But now too late, I do perceive,
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The Cause that has undone me.
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X.
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All Day I sit and vent my Grief,
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My Friends are but a Trouble,
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In vain they strive to give relief,
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They but increase it double:
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Had they been less severe, I might
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Have hinder'd my Undoing,
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But oh! alas, I find too late,
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The cause of my Undoing.
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