Constant CLORIS:
OR,
Her lamentation for Mirtillo.
Who was killed in Ireland, before he was Married
to her, and she for Grief and Dispair stabbed herself.
To the Tune of, Celia that I once was blest.
Licensed according to Order.
|
1.
|
CLoris in a Mirtle Grove,
|
Sat bemoaning of her love
|
To the Turtles, on the mirtles,
|
Pearching on the twigs above;
|
She unto them thus lay crying,
|
Come and see a Lover dying.
|
She unto, etc.
|
2.
|
My Mirtillo he is dead,
|
His soul to the Eleziums fled,
|
You that Cooing set and Wooing,
|
View me on my gloomy Bed;
|
O kind Death thy dart is killing,
|
And my soul with sorrows filling.
|
O kind, etc.
|
3.
|
I implore thee make me blest,
|
Rob no more my soul of rest,
|
For delaying's worse than staying,
|
waft me so Mirtillos breast;
|
O Mirtillo where thou'rt roaming,
|
My impatient soul is coming.
|
O Mirtillo, etc.
|
4.
|
Dear Mirtillo is withdrawn
|
To an Everlasting dawn,
|
He hath left me, and bereft me
|
Of those Eyes I doted on;
|
But I will not stay behind him,
|
I will seek him till I find him.
|
But I will, etc.
|
5.
|
I'll pursue his lovely Ghost,
|
And rush among the Crying Host,
|
Ne're abhor him, but seek for him
|
On the sweet Elezium Coast,
|
For Mirtillo I'll Enquire,
|
By my looks display my fire,
|
For Mirtillo, etc.
|
6.
|
My hated hours slowly pass,
|
Come Death dissolve this loathsom mass
|
Time is mowing, hours going,
|
Yet there's minutes in my glass,
|
But Mirtillo I will shake it,
|
For revenge my self will break it,
|
But Mirtillo, etc.
|
7.
|
My eager soul shall pass away,
|
To live in Everlasting Day,
|
My Mirtilo, by the willow,
|
Does bewail my tedious stay,
|
Love does always hate delaying,
|
Where 'tis fixt is no gainsaying.
|
Love does, etc.
|
8.
|
Then a bloody knife she took,
|
And with a gashly dying look,
|
Her heart she pierced, love rehearsed,
|
And this life she soon forsook,
|
Weltering in her gore she cryed,
|
Dear Mirtillo, and so died.
|
Weltering in her, etc.
|
9.
|
Fortune had no sooner fround,
|
And she receiv'd the fatal Wound,
|
But the Turtles on the Mirtles,
|
Was with grief incompast round,
|
And the small Birds mournful singing,
|
Was her Pasing-Bell then ringing.
|
And the, etc.
|
|
|
|
|
|