NOT far from here ther lives a Maid,
Who, as I've heard by many said,
Will bring a good dow're of gold and land
To him on whom she bestows her hand.
A buxom, cheerful, bustling lass,
She leads her father's kine to grass,
And all a good houswife's duty knows.
Nimble and net of limb is she,
Good temper'd too as a lass can be;
With pouting red lips, and a cheeck that glows
With the freshest hues of the opening rose:
No burger maid in Leyden town
Can match her eyes of lustrous brown;
And were I again in my youthful prime,
To woo and to win her I'd lose no time.
I wish our Claes, that son of mine,
Would but to my advice incline,
And court her close like a sensible lad,
While she and her dow'r are yet to be had:
For oft I've heard her father say:
Whoe'er she choose, he'll not say nay;
But give her a well stock'd farm and land,
And a well fill'd purse besides in hand.
But my son Claes, he is so slow,
To her he will not courting go:
He only fancies the town-bred grace
Of a Courtly dame and a painted face.
But what's your Court or burgher dame,
With pride of birth and empty name,
To a village lass with a purse well lin'd,
And wholesome alike in body and mind?
But, Oh! this boy! 'tis vexing quite
At bait so fair he will not bite;
And all I can do, or think, or say,
Alike on the lad are thrown away.
How oft have I not brought him to
The lass, in hopes that he would woo:
But there he'd stand-like a tongue-tied lout!
Nor open his mouth-but gape about!
In vain to cheer him on I strive,
And wink to make him more alive;
But not e'en once will he take her hand,
Nor speak one word she can understand.
E'en though 'tis Fair-time now, yet he
Buys her no Cakes nor Christmas tree;
No girdle, nor ring, nor handsome coif
To set the young damsel's head-dress off.
He writes no Sonnets in her praise,
As is the custom now-a-days,
But cold as a stone, not a word will say,
That hints in the least at a Wedding-day.
But, setting all such gifts aside-
Though gifts are proper to a Bride-
E'en from her he'll not take a thing,
Nor new neck-ruff, not handsome ring!
To look on gifts as no offence;
And if young man will aught receive,
'Tis a sign- at least, so girls believe-
That he next day may come again,
And then p'rhaps speak his mind more plain;
For Love doth ever more hopeful burn,
When the receiver doth make return.
But oh! this Claes! he will not woo
At all as other people do!
E'en when she herself asks him to dance,
He says that he can't, and looks askance:
For her he has no pleasing talk;
He never takes her out to walk,-
And when she kindly bids him stay,
He takes up his hat to walk away!-
To lose such a chance to me is odd!
Now isn't my Claes a downright clod?
But now I find my wife was right,
When she said to me t'other night:
Do hold thy tongue, now, Father, do!
'Tis plain our Claes don't care to woo.
Thou'lt never bring the match to pass,
He has no taking to the lass:
He's p'rhaps some other girl in view,
And take my word you may for true;-
The Love that's forc'd will never do!
Is not a lover, after all,
Best judge on whom his choice should fall?
Is courting not an impulse free,
That knows no force nor law's decree?
Do, Father, let the boy alone;-
Compulsion, never yet was known
To rule th'affections of the heart,
Nor guide the course of Cupid's dart.
Let him be free to choose his mate
According to his heart's dictate:
''No Well so bad as that, we think,
Whose water we're compelled to drink.'
Is not the Love-chase just the same
As hunting any other game?
What though the sportsman even see
The hare, so tame as not to flee,
Squat here and there at distance short,
As though the very dogs to court;-
Yet none the more the hare is won
If that his dogs refuse to run:
For hounds which hunt against their will,
Were seldom known the game to kill.
I AM consumed with decouring fire,
Whilst Vulcane gainst me doubles thus his ire:
The hand, much like a Isthme, doth seperate
The flames, and doth it selfe praecipitate
Into open danger, shewing so its love,
The scorching flames compels it to remove.
A thriftlesse husband if he spend his state,
And so the wife loving to goe too neat;
Their stocke and meanes quickely goes to decay,
And late repentance comes, when all's away.
But if a friend their ruine would prevent,
And stay their fall; be sure he shall be shent:
He losing labour scare shall harmelesse goe,
They both against him turne their malice so.
Oft times who parteth quarrels and debate,
Against himselfe doth turne the parties hate.
FARLIE'S Emblems.
WITH UNWILLING HOUNDS IT'S HARD TO CATCH HARES
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