[Black-letter copies of this ballad are to be found in the Bagford, Douce, and Roxburghe collections, as well as in the Pepys. The tune was a favourite one, and several other ballads were sung to it.]
Grim king of the ghosts, make haste,
And bring hither all your train;
See how the pale moon does waste,
And just now is in the wane.
Come, you night-hags, with all your charms, 5
And revelling witches away,
And hug me close in your arms;
To you my respects I'll pay.
I'll court you, and think you fair,
Since love does distract my brain: 10
I'll go, I'll wed the night-mare,
And kiss her, and kiss her again:
But if she prove peevish and proud,
Then, a pise on her love! let her go;
I'll seek me a winding shroud, 15
And down to the shades below.
A lunacy sad I endure,
Since reason departs away;
I call to those hags for a cure
As knowing not what I say. 20
The beauty, whom I do adore,
Now slights me with scorn and disdain;
I never shall see her more;
Ah! how shall I bear my pain!
I ramble, and range about 25
To find out my charming saint;
While she at my grief does flout,
And smiles at my loud complaint.
Distraction I see is my doom,
Of this I am now too sure; 30
A rival is got in my room,
While torments I do endure.
Strange fancies do fill my head,
While wandering in despair,
I am to the desarts lead, 35
Expecting to find her there.
Methinks in a spangled cloud
I see her enthroned on high;
Then to her I crie aloud,
And labour to reach the sky. 40
When thus I have raved awhile,
And wearyed myself in vain,
I lye on the barren soil,
And bitterly do complain.
Till slumber hath quieted me, 45
In sorrow I sigh and weep;
The clouds are my canopy
To cover me while I sleep.
I dream that my charming fair
Is then in my rival's bed, 50
Whose tresses of golden hair
Are on the fair pillow bespread.
Then this doth my passion inflame
I start, and no longer can lie:
Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame 55
To ruin a lover? I cry.