I.
I laugh and sing, but cannot tell
Whether the folly on't sounds well;
But then I groan,
Methinks, in tune;
Whilst grief, despair and fear dance to the air
Of my despised prayer.
II.
A pretty antick love does this,
Then strikes a galliard with a kiss;
As in the end
The chords they rend;
So you but with a touch from your fair hand
Turn all to saraband.
More verses by Richard Lovelace
- Advice To My Best Brother, Coll: Francis Lovelace.
- A Prologue To The Scholars. A Comaedy Presented At The White Fryers
- A Loose Saraband
- An Elegie. On The Death Of Mrs. Cassandra Cotton, Only Sister To Mr. C. Cotton.
- Paris's Second Judgement, Upon The Three Daughters Of My Dear Brother Mr. R. Caesar.