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. RIM king of the ghofts, make haste, GRE And bring hither all your train; See how the pale moon does waste, And just now is in the wane. Come, you night-hags, with all your charms, 5 And revelling witches away, And hug me close in your arms; brain: I'll court you, and think you fair, IQ But But if the prove peevish and proud, Then, a pife on her love! let her go; 15 I'll feek me a winding shroud, And down to the fhades below. A lunacy fad I endure, Since reafon departs away; Now flights me with fcorn and difdain; I never fhall fee her more: Ah! how fhall I bear my pain! I ramble, and range about To find out my charming faint; While fhe at my grief does flout, And fmiles at my loud complaint. Diftraction I fee is my doom, Of this I am now too fure; A rival is got in my room, While torments I do endure. Strange fancies do fill my head, I am to the defarts lead, 20 25 30 35 To the elyfian fhades I poft In hopes to be freed from care, XX. THE LADY DISTRACTED WITH LOVE, was originally fung in one of Tom D'URFEY's comedies of Don Quixote acted in 1694 and 1696; and probably compofed by himself. In the feveral ftanzas, the author reprefents his pretty Mad-woman as 1. fullenly mad: 2. mirthfully mad: 3. melancholy mad: 4. fantastically mad: and 5. ftark mad. Both this, and Num. XXII. are printed from D'urfey's "Pills to purge Melancholy." 1719. vol. I. FROM ROM rofie bowers, where fleeps the god of love, With tender paffion my heart's darling joy: 5 Or, if more influencing Is to be brisk and airy, With a frisk from the ground, 10 I'll trip like any fairy. As once on Ida dancing Were three celeftial bodies: With an air, and a face, And a fhape, and a grace, I'll charm, like beauty's goddess. Ah! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain! 15 Cold, cold defpair, disguis'd like fnow and rain, Falls on my breaft; bleak winds in tempefts blow; 20 My veins all shiver, and my fingers glow; My pulfe beats a dead march for loft repose, And to a folid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze. Or fay, ye powers, my peace to crown, Among the foaming billows? 25 On beds of ooze, and cryftal pillows No, no, I'll ftrait run mad, mad, mad, 30 When |