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EBBA 34576

Houghton Library - EB65
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The Heiress's Lamentation:
Pity too Late.
To the Tune of, The Torments of a Long Dispair.

YE Happy, happy Nimphs around,
That hear my Mournful Story,
Whose Breasts it does with Pity wound;
Take warning I implore ye:
Had I but sooner seen my Fate,
I might have sav'd my Ruin,
But like fond Girls, I find too late,
The cause of my Undoing.

If Pity be the Virgins part?
Their Nature's soft and moving;
Why then had I so hard a Heart
To One so Kind and Loving?
Distracting Thoughts my Fate attends,
All other Men will shun me:
Oh! cruel Laws, more cruel Friends,
Why have ye thus undone me?

Alas! what is my Fortune now?
Each Fop will look above me;
Pretenders I may have enow,
But none that e'er will love me,
Like those by Ignorance betray'd,
I'm driven to Repentance,
To live a Wretched ruin'd Maid,
Is my unpitied sentence.

Some strictness Modesty allows,
To guard us from our Ruin,
But I alas! have no Excuse,
He sought not my Undoing;
With tender Sighs (to be his Wife,)
And constancy did Woe me,
But I ungratefull took his Life,
What Vengeance must pursue me?

Methinks in the Elizium shades,
Where injur'd Lovers tarry,
He there my Treachery upbraids,
My cruel Marks does carry;
'Revenge, revenge my Wrongs (he crys)
that Perfidious Woman;
'Ye fates for her new Wrath devise,
Punishments uncommon.

'As Pity once was to her Breast,
Peace become a Stranger,
'Let Ghastly Thoughts desturb her Rest,
fright her still with danger;
'When Time my Injuries shall clear,
all Mankind defame her:
'May all with Joy, her Sorrows hear,
none with pity name her.

Such Cruel dismal Sounds are these,
My waking Thoughts discover,
And when with Sleep my Griefs I'd ease,
His strangled Ghost does hover
About my Couch; methinks it flies
With open Arms, to have me,
'You are my Lawful Wife, he crys,
Power on Earth shall save ye.

Then waking from the sad Surprize,
I trembling, gaze around me,
And tho' no Ghosts, alas! there is:
My Conscience serves to wound me.
Wou'd I had been some home-bred Lass,
Brought up in humble Doing;
For Riches is the Cause, alas!
Of my Eternal Ruin.

Ye Brittish Maids, take my Advice,
And not for Int'rest Marry,
Let not Merit rule your Choice,
Lest ye like me Miscarry;
My Fortune I was loath to give,
Tho' he by Love had won me,
But now too late, I do perceive,
The Cause that has undone me.

All Day I sit and vent my Grief,
My Friends are but a Trouble,
In vain they strive to give relief,
They but increase it double:
Had they been less severe, I might
Have hinder'd my Undoing,
But oh! alas, I find too late,
The cause of my Undoing.

London, Printed for J. Richardson, near Ludgate.

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