6
uch is the robe that Kings must wear
when death has reft the crown.
Her blood is like the springing flow'r,
that sips the silver dew
The rose was budded in her cheek,
and op'ning to the view.
But love had like the canker worm,
consum’d her early prime:
The rose grew pale and left her cheek,
she died before her prime:
Awake, she cry’d, thy true love calls,
came from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid,
thy love refus'd to save.
This is the d rk and f arful hour,
when injur’d ghosts complain,
Now dreary graves give up their dead,
to hunt the faithless swain.
Bethink thee William, of thy fault,
thy pledge and broken oath,
And give me back my maiden vow,
and give me back my troth
How could you say my face was fair,
and yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,
yet leave that hurt to break,
