These injuries I suffer

Through antichrist's perswasion:

Take off this chain,

Neither Rome nor Spain

Can resist my strong invasion.

Boldly I preach, &c.

Of the beast's ten horns (God bless us!)

I have knock'd off three already;

If they let me alone

I'll leave him none:

But they say I am too heady.
Boldly I preach, &c.

When I sack'd the seven-hill'd city,

I met the great red dragon;

I kept him aloof

With the armour of proof,

Though here I have never a rag on.
Boldly I preach, &c.

With a fiery sword and target,
There fought I with this monster:
But the sons of pride

My zeal deride,

And all my deeds misconster.

Boldly I preach, &c.

I un-hors'd the Whore of Babel,
With the lance of Inspiration;

I made her stink,

And spill the drink

In her cup of abomination.

Boldly I preach, &c.

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25

20

I have seen two in a vision

With a flying book1 between them.
I have been in despair

Five times in a year,

And been cur'd by reading Greenham. 2
Boldly I preach, &c.

I observ'd in Perkin's tables 3
The black line of damnation;
Those crooked veins

So stuck in my brains,
That I fear'd my reprobation.
Boldly I preach, &c.

In the holy tongue of Canaan
I plac'd my chiefest pleasure:
Till I prick'd my foot
With an Hebrew root,

That I bled beyond all measure.
Boldly I preach, &c.

I appear'd before the archbishop,
And all the high commission;

I gave him no grace,

But told him to his face,

That he favour'd superstition.

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60

1 Alluding to some visionary exposition of Zech. ch. v. ver. 1; or, if the date of this song would permit, one might suppose it aimed at one Coppe, a strange enthusiast, whose life may be seen in Wood's Athen. Vol. II. p. 501. He was author of a book, intitled, 'The Fiery Flying Roll:' and afterwards published a Recantation, part of whose title is, 'The Fiery Flying Roll's Wings clipt,' &c. See Greenham's Works, fol. 1605, particularly the tract intitled, 'A sweet Comfort for an afflicted Conscience.'-3 See Perkins's Works, fol. 1616, Vol. I. p. 11; where is a large half sheet folded, containing, 'A survey, or table, declaring the order of the causes of salvation and damnation, &c.' the pedigree of damnation being distinguished by a broad black zig-zag line.— Abp. Laud.

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Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice, 65

Mitres, copes, and rochets:

Come hear me pray nine times a day,

And fill your heads with crotchets.

XIX.

THE LUNATIC LOVER,

MAD SONG THE THIRD,

—is given from an old printed copy in the British Museum, compared with another in the Pepys collection; both in black letter.

GRIM king of the ghosts, make haste,

And bring hither all your train;

See how the pale moon doth waste,

And just now is in the wane.

Come, you night-hags, with all your charms,

And revelling witches away,

And hug me close in your arms;
To you my respects I'll pay.

I'll court you, and think you fair,
Since love does distract my brain:
I'll

go, I'll wed the night-mare,
And kiss her, and kiss her again:
But if she prove peevish and proud,

Then, pise on her love! let her go;

I'll seek me a winding shroud,

And down to the shades below.

A lunacy sad I endure,

Since reason departs away;
I call to those hags for a cure
As knowing not what I say.

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10

15

20

The beauty, whom I do adore,

Now slights me with scorn and disdain; I never shall see her more:

Ah! how shall I bear my pain?

I ramble, and range about

To find out my charming saint; While she at my grief does flout, And smiles at my loud complaint. Distraction I see is my doom,

Of this I am now too sure;

A rival is got in my room,

While torments I do endure.

Strange fancies do fill my head,
While wandering in despair,
I am to the desarts lead,

Expecting to find her there.
Methinks in a spangled cloud
I see her enthroned on high;
Then to her I crie aloud,

And labour to reach the sky.

When thus I have raved awhile,

And wearyed myself in vain,
I lye on the barren soil,

And bitterly do complain.
Till slumber hath quieted me,
In sorrow I sigh and weep;
The clouds are my canopy
To cover me while I sleep.

I dream that my charming fair
Is then in my rival's bed,

Whose tresses of golden hair

Are on the fair pillow bespread.
Then this doth my passion inflame,
I start, and no longer can lie:
'Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame
To ruin a lover?' I cry.

Grim king of the ghosts, be true,
And hurry me hence away,
My languishing life to you
A tribute I freely pay.
To the Elysian shades I post

In hopes to be freed from care,
Where many a bleeding ghost
Is hovering in the air.

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XX.

THE LADY DISTRACTED WITH LOVE,

MAD SONG THE FOURTH,

-was originally sung in one of Tom D'urfey's comedies of Don Quixote acted in 1694 and 1696; and probably composed by himself. In the several stanzas, the author represents his pretty Mad-woman as 1. sullenly mad: 2. mirthfully mad: 3. melancholy mad: 4. fantastically mad: and 5. stark mad. Both this, and Num. XXII. are printed from D'urfey's 'Pills to purge Melancholy,' 1719, vol. I.

FROM rosie bowers, where sleeps the god of love,
Hither little wanton cupids fly;

ye

Teach me in soft melodious strains to move
With tender passion my heart's darling joy:
Ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice,
To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.

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