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EBBA 35783

Beinecke Library - Michell-Jolliffe
Ballad XSLT Template
CUPID'S COURT
of EQUITY.
The scornful Lady quickly took,
While she her love Disdain'd:
She was prick'd down in Cupid's Book,
His Vassal she remain'd.
Tune of, When first I bid my Love Good-Morrow.

WHen first I bid my Love good morrow,
with tear in Eye, and hand on breast;
My heart was even drown'd in sorrow,
and I poor soul was much opprest.

The glances from her Eye so darted,
I her captive soon was made;
The Prisoner took was broken-hearted,
this I find is Cupids Trade.

All my reason then was banish'd,
and I left in Captivity:
My hop'd for joys were quickly vanish'd,
by the Lightning of her Eye.

All my hopes at once were blasted,
by one seeming scornful look:
The joys I hop'd for to have tasted,
had no Record in Cupids Book.

I sigh'd, I groan'd just like a Lover,
ready just for to depart;
And had no hopes for to recover,
for she, Oh she! had broke my heart.

Away I went without her smiling,
which was worse then death to me:
And Cupid was me then beguiling
of my Life and Liberty.

BUt when she see that I absented,
almost melted into Tears,
My Love-sick case she then lamented,
and like myself was fill'd with fears.

Alas, quoth she, am I so cruel,
as to let this Lover dye?
Or to his flames to add such fuel,
as makes his heart to scorch and fry.

A Balsome then I will provide him,
shall effect a perfect cure;
And in my bosome I will hide him,
he shall not these pains indure.

My thinks I feel myself relenting,
and in tears I almost melt:
Now do I grieve at his tormenting,
I now feel the pains he felt.

None can indure this bitter anguish,
which at this time I do feel:
For want of him I grieve, I languish,
none but he my wounds can heal.

Let not your beauty make you peevish,
you that nature made so fair:
For mens as womens eyes are thievish,
love commands or breeds dispair.

At first too strangely I did slight him,
whom I now so much adore:
He is the Man I do delight in,
and now will do forevermore.

His sighs and groans shall be requited,
with a shoure of brackish tears:
And my senses are benighted,
fill'd with storms of dreads and fears.

Oh come again before my sorrow
brings me to the brink of Death,
I cannot hope to see tomorrow,
except you come to save my breath.

Then come & take thy conquest quickly
I am ready to depart:
Just at this moment I am sickly,
thou hast won my tender heart.


FINIS.
Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-
ball, near the Hospital-Gate,in West-
smith-field.

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