The mysteries of love & eloquence, or, The arts of wooing and complementing as they are manag'd in the Spring Garden, Hide Park, the New Exchange, and other eminent places : a work in which is drawn to the life the deportments of the most accomplisht persons, the mode of their courtly entertainments, treatments of their ladies at balls, their accustom'd sports, drolls and fancies, the witchcrafts of their perswasive language in their approaches, or other more secret dispatches ...

The FRYER and the MAID.

ASI lay musing all alone A merry Tale I thought upon; Now listen a while and I will you tell Of a Fryer that lov'd a Bonny Lass well. He came to her when she was going to bed Desiring to have her Maiden-head; But she denyed his desire, And said that she did fear Hell-fire.

Tush, tush, quoth the Fryer, thou need's not doubt. If thou wer't in Hell, I could sing thee out: Why then, quoth the Maid, thou shalt have thy request; The Fryer was as glad as a Fox in his nest.

But one thing more I must request More than to sing me out of Hell-fire, That is for doing of the thing An Angel of Mony you must me bring.

Tush, tush, quoth the Fryer, we two shall agree, No Mony shall part thee and me; Before thy company I will lack Ile pawn the Gray-gown off my back.

The maid bethought her on a Wile How she might this Fryer beguile; When he was gone, the truth to tell, She hung a Cloth before a Well:

The Fryar came, as his bargain was, With Mony unto his bonny Lass; Good morrow, Fair Maid, good morrow, quoth she; Here is the Mony I promis'd thee.

She thank'd him, and she took the Mony; Now let's go to't, my own sweet Honey:

Nay, stay a while, some respite make, If my Master should come, he would us take.

Alass; quoth the Maid, my Master doth come; Alass! quoth the Fryer, where shall I run; Behind you Cloth run thou quoth she, For there my Master cannot see.

Behind the Cloth the Fryer went, And was in the Well incontinent: Alass: quoth he I'm in the Well; No matter quoth she if thou wer't in hell.

Thou said'st thou could'st sing me out of Hell, I prithee sing thy self out of the Well; Sing out, quoth she, with all thy might, Or else thou'rt like to sing there all night.

The Fryer sang out with a pitifull sound, Oh! help me out or I shall be Drown'd: She heard him make such a pitiful moan, She hope him out, and bid him go home.

Quoth the Fryer I never was serv'd so before; Away, quoth the Wench, come here no more: The Fryer he walked a long the street As if he had been a new washed Sheep, Sing hey down a derry; and let's be merry, And from such sin ever to keep.