The batchelors ballad. Or a remedy against love Thou little peevish God! whom heretofore, the blinder world, so highly did adore; bor [sic] whom the loving fools a quiver found, fows [sic], arrows, wings; nay more, pow'r to wou[ld] know, I defie thee, boy; not all thy art, can reach my eye, much-less enslave my heart: if thon [sic] hast any, come and shew thy skill, fain would I love one hour against my will; alas poor God! men will no longer now, to thee, thy mother, or thy minions bow; your pow'r & fame which has so long been gre[at] upon examination proves a cheat. To a pleasant new tune: or, The Duke of Monmouth's jig. With allowance, by R. L'Estrang[e].
Printed for Philip Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in West-smith's-field,
|Series:||Early English books online.
No Tags, Be the first to tag this record!