Said he, your Lord is dead and cold,
You only cry in vain;
Not all the Cries of London now,
Could call him back again!
XII.
You’ll soon have many a noble beau,
To dry your noble tears—
But just consider this, that I
Have follow’d you for years.
XIII.
And tho’ you are above me far,
What matters high degree,
When you are only four feet nine
And I am six foot three.
XIV.
For tho’ you are of lofty race,
And I’m a low-born elf;
Yet none among your friends could say
You matched beneath yourself.
XV.
Said she, such insolence as this
Can be no common case;
Though you are in my service, sir,
Your love is out of place.