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THE MAID'S COMPLAINT OF HER
[From “ the Muses Garden. 1610.”]
My father fain would have me take
A man that hath a beard,
And makes me much afraid,
Now surely this is goodly stuff, Faith let my mother marry me,
Or 'else my father bury me,
For I have liy'd these fourteen years,
My mother knows it well,
Can any body tell !
That custom will not let them woo;
But I were mad if I refuse.
My mother bids me go to school,
And learn to do some good, 'Twere well if she would let the fool,
Come home and suck a dug, As if my father knew not yet
That maidens are for young men fit ; Give me my mind and let me wed,
Or you shall quickly find me dead.
How soon my mother hath forgot
That ever she was young,
But sung another song,
When I am dry I may not drink;
She must have fire when she is cold.
You see the mother loves the son,
The father loves the maid ;
I will not be delay'd,
My mother shall not have her will,
I will be married do what she can.
“ A rare example of a virtuous maid in Paris, who
was by' her own mother procured to be put in prison, thinking thereby to compel her to Popery: but she continued to the end, and finished her life in the fire.”
Tune is0 man in desperation.
Of Paris properly,
To mass that she should hie :
Her daughter dear did say
I never can obey.
With weeping and wailing
Her mother then did go,
That they the truth may know;
They did this maiden call,
To fear her therewithal.
But where they thought to fear her,
She did most strong endure,
Her faith was firm and sure.
She fear'd not fiery flames,
To have immortal fame.
Before the judge they brought her,
Thinking that she would turn, And there she was condemned
In fire for to burn; Instead of golden bracelets,
With cords they bound her fast, My God, grant me with patience
(Quoth she) to die at last.
Unto the place of torment
They brought her speedily, With heart and mind most constant,
She willing was to die, But seeing many ladies
Assembled in that place, These words she then pronounced,
Lamenting of their case.
You ladies of this city,
Mark well my words (quoth she) ; Although I shall be burned
Yet do not pity me, Yourselves I rather pity,
And weep for your decay; Amend your time, fair ladies,
And do no time delay,
Then came her mother weeping
Her daughter to behold,
A book covered with gold : Throw hence, quoth she, that idol,
Convey it from my sight; And bring me hither my Bible,
Wherein I take delight.