A Lullaby.
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COme little Babe, come silly Soule,
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thy Fathets shame & Mothers grief,
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Borne (as I doubt) to all our doles,
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and to thyself unpappy chief:
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Sing Lullaby, and wrap it warme,
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Poore Soul it thinks no creature harm.
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Thou little think'st, and least dost know
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the cause of this his Mothers moane,
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Thou wantst the wit to wayle her woe,
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and I myself am all alone:
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Why dost thou weep, why dost thou wail,
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And knowst not now what thou dost ail?
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Come little wretch, ah silly heart!
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mine onely joy, what can I more?
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If there be any wrong thy smart,
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that may thy destinie, deplore;
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'Twas I, I say against my will,
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I waile the time, but be thou still.
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And dost thou smile? Oh thy sweet face,
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I would thy Dad the same might see,
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No doubt but it would purchase grace,
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I know it well, for thee and me:
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But come to Mother, Babe, and play,
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For Father false is fled away.
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Sweet Boy, if it thy fortune chance.
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thy Father home againe to send,
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If Death doth strike me with his Lance,
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yet may'st thou me commend?
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If any aske thy Mothers name,
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Tell how by love she purchas'd blame.
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Then will his gentle heart soon yeeld,
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I know him of a noble mind,
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Although a Lyon in the field,
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a Lamb in Town thou shalt him find,
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Ask blessing Lad, be not afraid,
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His sugred lips have me betray'd.
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Then may'st thou joy and be right glad,
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although in woe I seeme to moane:
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Thy Father is no rascall Lad,
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a noble Youth of blood and bone;
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His glancing look, if he once smile,
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Right honest Woman will beguile.
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Come little Boy, and rock asleep,
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sing Lullaby, and be thou still,
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I that can doe nought else but weep,
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will sit by thee and Lullaby,
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God blesse my Babe and Lullaby
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From this his Fathers quality.
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