Constant CLORIS OR, Her lamentation for Mirtillo. Who was killed in Ireland, before he was Married to her, and she for Grief and Dispair stabbed her self.
To the Tune of,
Celia that I once was blest.
Licensed according to Order.
[...]
1.
CLoris in a Mirtle Grove,
Sat bemoaning of her love
To the Turtles, on the mirtles,
Pearching on the twigs above;
She unto them thus lay crying,
Come and see a Lover dying.
She unto, &c.
2.
My
Mirtillo he is dead,
His soul to the
Elezium's fled,
You that Cooing set and Wooing,
View me on my gloomy Bed;
O kind Death thy dart is killing,
And my soul with sorrows filling.
O kind, &c.
3.
I implore thee make me blest,
Rob no more my soul of rest,
For delaying's worse than staying,
wast me to
Mirtillo's breast;
O
Mirtillo where thou'rt roaming,
My impatient soul is coming.
O Mirtillo, &c.
4.
Dear
Mirtillo is withdrawn
To an Everlasting dawn,
He hath left me, and berest me
Of those Eyes I doted on;
But I will not stay behind him,
I will seek him till I find him.
But I will, &c.
5.
I'll pursue his lovely Ghost,
And rush among the Crying Host,
Ne're abhor him, but seek for him
On the sweet
Elezium Coast,
For
Mirtillo I'll Enquire,
By my looks display my sire,
For Mirtillo, &c.
6.
My hated hours slowly pass,
Come Death dissolve this loathsom mass
Time is mowing, hours going,
Yet there's minutes in my glass,
But
Mirtillo I will shake it,
For revenge my self will break it,
But Mirtillo, &c.
7.
My eager soul shall pass away,
To live in Everlasting Day,
My
Mirtilo, by the willow,
[...] Does bewail my tedious stay,
Love does always hate delaying,
Where 'tis fixt is no gainsaying.
Love does, &c.
8.
Then a bloody knife she took,
And with a gashly dying look,
Her heart she pierced, love rehearsed,
And this life she soon forsook,
Weltering in her gore she cryed,
Dear Mirtillo, and so died.
Weltering in her, &c.
9.
Fortune had no sooner fround,
And she receiv'd the fatal Wound,
But the Turtles on the Mirtles,
Was with grief incompast round,
And the small Birds mournful singing,
Was her Pasing-Bell then ringing.
And the, &c.
FINIS.
Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in Pye-Corner.