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Broadside ballads entitled 'The Milking Pail' and 'Nancies Unkindness to her Lover'



To an excellent New Tune much in request

Ye Nimphs and Silvian Gods,
That Love green Feilds and Woods,
When spring newly Born her self does Adorn
With Flowers and Blooming Budes;
Come singing the Praise, while Flooks does grase
in yonder pleasant Vail:
Or these that choose their Sleep to loose
And in Cold goes with clouted Shoes,
To carry the Milking Pail.

You Goddess of the Morn,
With Blushes you adorn
Do take fresh Air whilst Lenats prepare,
a Consort in each green Thorn
The Blackbird and Thrush in every Bush..
and the charming Nightingale
Who in a merry vein their Throats do strain,
To entertain the jolly Train
Of those of the Milking Pail.

When cold Black Winds do roar.
And Fields will Spring no more
The Flowers that was seen so pleasant and green
With Winter all Candi'd o're
But how the Town Lass with her white Face
And her Lips so deadly pale
But it is so with those that go,
Through Frost and snow, with Cheeks that glo
And carry the Milking Pail

The Misses of Courtly Mold,
Ad'orn'd with Pearl and Gold,
With Washes and Tent her Skin does so paint
That she's wither'd before she grow Oid
While she of Common, puts on a Cart load,
And with Cushens plump her Tail            
What Joys are found, in Rushy ground         
Young plump and sound and sweet and round
Of those of the Milking Pail                  

You Girles of Venus Game
That ventures health and Fame
In practising Feats with Cold and Heats,
Makes Lovers grow Blind and Lame
If Men were so wise to value the prize,         
Of the Wares most fit for Sale,                  
what store of Bose would dob their Cloaths      
To save a Nose by following those                  
Who carry the Milking Pail,

The Countrey Lad is free,
From Fears and jealousie,
Wailst upon the Green, he is often seen
with his Lassie on his knee
With Kisses most sweet, he doth her so treat
And swears he'll grow Thral.
But the London Lass in every place,
With brazen face, despises the Grace
Of those of the Milking Pail,

F   I   N   I   S



of Nancies Unkindness to her Lover
To its own propper Tune.

True Love is a Tormenting Pain.

As I was a ranging yon Forrest of Fancies,
With the nine Muses attending me,
Into a Bour I spyed beautiful Nancie,
Sadly bemoaning her Destinie;
Saying Alas! Where shall I wander,
Where to find out my own dear Swain,
Patience of Sorrow in heart I lay under,
True love is a Tormenting pain.

But when I consider the promise I made him,
That I would ever be Just and True,
But now since I find I have betray'd him,
This doth my aSorrows fresh renew,
Every Night instead of Sleeping,
Tears I do shed like showers of Rain,
My heart would break if it were not for weeping
True Love is a Tormenting pain

We for many long years have been parted,
Never expecting to behold him more,
But since I found that I was false hearted,
As for to slight him and leave him o're.
I to forget him do my endeavour
But now I find it is all in vain,
Here in my breast is a violent Fire,
True Love is a Tormenting Pain.

Its not my sad sighs and sorrowful ditty.
That ever did yet prevail with thee,
Because I was so void and want of all Pity,
As to endeavour to Torment thee,
But now my poor heart will soon be broken,
Here I can no longer remain,
Sad sighs and sorrow and grief is a token,
True Love is such a Tormenting pain.

But O that kind Cupid would yeild me this favour
As to let one of his Arrows Fly,
Into his bosom that from me did sever,
Let him be wounded as well as I.
Then would he pitty my condition.
And with much speed return again,
Be but so kind as grant my Petition,
True Love is such a Tormenting pain,

F I    N   I S.   

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Probable date of publication: 1701   shelfmark: Ry.III.a.10(020)
Broadside ballads entitled 'The Milking Pail' and 'Nancies Unkindness to her Lover'
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