A Song

Now I have been a Widdow
These five and forty years,
Both night and day I beg and pray,
With many a bitter tear,
That Jove would be but pleas'd to grant,
What Nature hath design'd
To chear the Hearts of those in want,
As old Women poor and blind.

But why should I torment my self,
For what I cannot gain,
Since day nor night brings no delight.
But misery and pain:
Or why should I rejected be,
Since none will be so kind
As for to do a courtesie
For an old Woman poor and blind.

A young man hearing her complain,
Returned this reply,
What will you give me, good Woman, said he,
And I'le smuggle you handsomely;
In troth kind Sir, nothing I have
That I will thee deny,
If thou wilt be but pleas'd to grant
To do me this courtesie.

Oh here is forty Shillings,
That's all the Money I have,
I am but poor, and have no more,
To carry me to my Grave;
And if thou wilt take it in part
Of being to me kind,
The Gods above be thy reward,
For an old Woman poor and blind.