From MS. Rawlinson Poet. 94. fol. 192.
The[16] Resolution.
NAY, Silvia, now you're cruel grown;
I'll swear you most unjustly frown.
I only asked (in vain) to taste
What you denied with mighty haste;
I asked—but I'm ashamed to tell
What 'twas you took so wondrous ill—
A kiss. But with a coy disdain
You view'd my sighings and my pain;
'Twas but a civil small request,
Yet with proud looks and hand on breast,
You cried "I'm not so eager to be kiss'd,"
Put case[17] that I had loosed your gown,
And then by force had laid you down,
And with unruly hands had teased you,—
Too justly then I had displeased you.
Or had I (big with wanton joys)
Engaged you for a brace of boys,
Then basely left you full of nature,—
This would have been provoking matter.
But I, poor harmless civil I,
Begg'd for the meanest coolest joy,
And saw denial in your eye;
For with a squeamish glance you cried
"I hate the nauseous bliss."
"'Tis well," said I; "since I'm denied,
For rocks of diamonds I'll not kiss."
From Captain Wm. Hicks' Oxford Drollery, 1671.
A[18] new Song, to the New Jig-tune.
WHY Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she,
Your will, sir?
I love thee, quoth he. If you love me, quoth she,
Do so still, sir.
I'd gi' thee, quoth he. Would you gi' me, quoth she?
But what, sir?
Why, some money, quoth he, O some money, quoth she?
Let me ha't, sir.
I'd ha' thee, quoth he. Would you ha' me, quoth she?
But where, sir?
To my chamber, quoth he. To your chamber, quoth she?
Why there, sir?
I'd kiss thee, quoth he. Would you kiss me, quoth she?
But when, sir?
Why now, quoth he. Neither now, quoth she,
Nor then, sir.
I'd hug thee, quoth he. Would you hug me, quoth she?
How much, sir?
Why a little, quoth he. 'Tis a little, quoth she;
Not a touch, sir.
I am sickish, quoth he. Are you sickish, quoth she?
But why, sir?
'Cause you slight me, quoth he. Do I slight you, quoth she?
'Tis a lie, sir.
I'm dying, quoth he. O dying, quoth she?
Are you sure on't?
'Tis certain, quoth he. Is't certain, quoth she?
There's no cure on't.
Then farewell, quoth he. Ay, and farewell, quoth she,
My true Love.
I am going, quoth he. So am I too, quoth she,
To a new love.
From Folly in Print, 1667.
A Song in Dialogue.