An antidote against melancholy: made up in pills. Compounded of witty ballads, jovial songs, and merry catches.

The Ballad Of the Fryer and the Maid.

AS I 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'st not doubt, If though wer't in Hell, I could sing the 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.

This 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 Fryer came, as his bargin was, VVith 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 Maide, my Master doth come; Alass! quoth the Frier, where shall I run? Behind yon 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 couldst sing me out of Hell, I prethee 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 Fryar Sang out with a pittyful sound Oh! help me out or I shall be Drownd: She heard him make such 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 it had been a new washed Sheep, Sing hey down a derry; and let's be merry, And from such sin ever to keep.