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I still had ruth on widows' tears,
I succour'd babes of tender years;
And never look'd for other gain
But love and thanks for all my pain.

At last my royal king did die,
And then my days of woe grew nigh;
When crook-back Richard got the crown,
King Edward's friends were soon put down.

I then was punish'd for my sin,
That I so long had lived in ;
Yea, every one that was his friend,
This tyrant brought to shameful end.

Then for my lewd and wanton life,
That made a strumpet of a wife,
I penance did in Lombard-street,
In shameful manner in a sheet :

Where many thousands did me view, Who late in court my credit knew ; Which made the tears run down my face, To think upon my foul disgrace.

Not thus content, they took from me

My goods, my livings, and my fee;

And charg'd that none should me relieve, Nor any succour to me give.

Then unto mistress Blague I went,

To whom my jewels I had sent;

In hope thereby to ease my want,
When riches fail'd, and love grew scant.

But she denied to me the same,
When in my need for them I came ;
To recompense my former love,
Out of her doors she did me shove.

So love did vanish with my state,
Which now my soul repents too late;
Therefore, example take by me,
For friendship parts in poverty.

But yet one friend, among the rest,
Whom I before had seen distress'd,
And sav'd his life, condemn'd to die,
Did give me food to succour me :

For which, by law, it was decreed,
That he was hanged for that deed;
His death did grieve me so much more,
Than had I died myself therefore.

Then those to whom I had done good,
Durst not restore me any food;
Whereby in vain I beg'd all day,
And still in streets by night I lay.

My gowns, beset with pearl and gold, Were turn'd to simple garments old; My chains and gems and golden rings, To filthy rags and loathsome things.

Thus was I scorn'd of maid and wife,
For leading such a wicked life;
Both sucking babes, and children small,
Did make their pastime at my fall.

I could not get one bit of bread,
Whereby my hunger might be fed :
Nor drink, but such as channels yield,
Or stinking ditches in the field.

Thus, weary of my life, at length,
I yielded up my vital strength,
Within a ditch of loathsome scent,
Where carrion-dogs do much frequent.

The which now since my dying day,
Is Shore-ditch call'd*, as writers say;
Which is a witness of my sin,
For being concubine to a king.

You wanton wives, that fall to lust,
Be you assur'd that God is just;
Whoredom shall not escape his hand,
Nor pride unpunish'd in this land.

If God to me such shame did bring,
That yielded only to a king,
How shall they 'scape that daily run
To practise sin with every man.

You husbands, match not but for love,
Lest some disliking after prove;

In this particular, at least, either Mrs. Shore, or the writer who furnished her with the information, is under a small mistake: Shoreditch having existed, by that very name, for some hundreds of years before she was born; being part of, or near to, the great common shore (sewer) or drain of the city.

Women, be warn'd when you are wives,
What plagues are due to sinful lives :
Then, maids and wives, in time amend,
For love and beauty will have end.

BALLAD X.

TRUE LOVE REQUITED:

OR,

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON.*

THERE was a youth, and a well-beloved youth,

And he was a squire's son:

He lov'd the bailiff's daughter dear,

That liv'd in Islington.

She was coy, and she would not believe

That he did love her so;

No, nor at any time she would
Any countenance to him show.

But when his friends did understand
His fond and foolish mind,
They sent him up to fair London,

An apprentice for to bind.

And when he had been seven long years,

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His love he had not seen :

Many a tear have I shed for her sake,

'When she little thought of me.'

* Islington in Norfolk is probably the place here meant. PERCY.

All the maids of Islington

Went forth to sport and play, All but the bailiff's daughter dear, She secretly stole away.

She put off her gown of grey,
And put on her puggish attire
She's up to fair London gone,
Her true love to require.

As she went along the road,

The weather being hot and dry, There was she aware of her true love; At length came riding by.

She step'd to him as red as any rose,
Catching hold of his bridle-ring:
Pray you, kind sir, give me one penny,
'To ease my weary limb.'

I prithee, sweet-heart, can'st thou tell me,
'Where that thou wast born?'-

* At Islington, kind sir, (said she)
'Where I have had many a scorn.'

I prithee, sweet-heart, cán'st thou tell me, 'Whether thou dost know *The bailiff's daughter of Islington?' 'She's dead, sir, long ago.'

* Then will I sell my goodly steed,

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My saddle and my bow;

'I will into some far country,

'Where no man doth me know.'

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