An ANSWER
TO THE
Cook-Maid's TRAGEDY:
OR, THE
Lamentation of Thomas the Coach-man,
FOR
MARY the Cook-Maid, in COVENT GARDEN,
Who Poyson'd herself in Dispair for his sake.
To the Tune of, If Love's a sweet Passion, etc.
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ASsist m[e], you Muses, to make my sad moan,
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Who am left in a otion of sorrows alone,
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Where, alas! I am Shipwrack'd on Rocks of dispair,
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[For my passion I now am not able to bear:]
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[Not] an hou[r] nor minute of comfort I have,
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[Wh]en I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.
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I see mine own folly, now, now 'tis too late,
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And lament for dear Marys sad desperate state,
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Who was wounded, I know, by the Arrows of Love,
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When she took that strong Poyson her grief to remove:
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In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,
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When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.
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Her fancy young Cupid was pleas'd to confine,
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That her heart could not wander, 'twas constantly mine;
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Yet I needs must acknowledge I slighted her so,
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That it proved her ruin and sad overthrow:
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In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,
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When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.
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Whatever between us in private had past,
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Was unknown to the World, therefore clearly at last,
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I endeavour to smother and stoutly deny;
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Was there ever Young-man so ungrateful as I?
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In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,
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When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.
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I did my endeavour the same to conceal,
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But I now sad passionate torment do feel,
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Which bereaves me of all the delights of the World;
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With distracted confusion my thoughts they are hurl'd:
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In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,
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When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.
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Now, now she lies sleeping, poor Soul, in the dust,
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Who was never faint-hearted, but loyal and just,
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While in [so]rrow her Thomas is left to complain;
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[But it is not my tears can recal her again:]
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In my conscience no comfort or q[uiet I have,]
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When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.
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So soon as her presence she found I forsook,
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Straight a potion of Poison, poor creature, she took,
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To release her kind heart from the torment she felt,
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When she found like a false-hearted lover I dealt.
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In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,
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When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.
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Where-ever I wander she runs in my mind,
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And methinks that I hear her cry, Thomas unkind,
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Tell me, how could you flatter an innocent Maid?
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Thus I fancy I hear how she does me upbraid:
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In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,
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When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.
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Oh that I was able her Life to restore,
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Then I'd labour to honour and dearly adore
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My beloved dear innocent Mary, for why,
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Since she's dead, there's none so unhappy as I:
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But alas! all my sighs and sad tears are in vain,
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All the World cannot raise or recal her again.
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