Volume 5 — The Knotting Song. The Words by Sir Charles Sydney.

[Listen]

HEars not my Phillis how the Birds, Their feather’d Mates salute: They tell their Passion in their Words, Must I alone, must I alone be mute: Phillis without a frown or smile, Sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while. The God of Love in thy bright Eyes, Does like a Tyrant Reign; But in thy Heart a Child he lies, Without a Dart or Flame. Phillis, &c. So many Months in silence past, And yet in raging Love; Might well deserve one word at last, My Passion should approve. Phillis, &c. Must then your faithful Swain expire, And not one look obtain; Which to sooth his fond desire, Might pleasingly explain. Phillis, &c.

The French King in a foaming Passion for the loss of his Potent Army in the Netherlands, which were Routed by his Grace the Duke of Marlborough.

[Listen]

OLD Lewis le Grand, He raves like a Fury, And calls for Mercury; Quoth he, if I can, I’ll finish my Days; For why should I live? Since the Fates will not give One affable smile: Great Marlborough Conquers, Great Marlborough Conquers, I’m ruin’d the while. The Flower of France, And Troops of my Palace Which march’d from Versales Who vow’d to Advance, With Conquering Sword, Are cut, hack’d and hew’d, I well may conclude, They’re most of them Slain: Oh! what will become of, Oh! what will become of, My Grand-Son in Spain. My fortify’d Throne, Propt up by Oppression, Must yield at Discretion, For needs must I own, My Glory decays: Bold Marlborough comes With ratling Drums, And thundering Shot, He drives all before him, He drives all before him, Oh! Where am I got? He pushes for Crowns, And slays my Commanders, And Forces in Flanders; Great Capital Towns, For CHARLES has declar’d: These things like a Dart, Has pierced my Heart, And threatens my Death; Here do I lye sighing, Here do I lye sighing, And Panting for Breath. This passionate Grief, Draws on my Diseases, Which fatally ceases My Spirits in chief, A fit of the Gout, The Gravel and Stone, I have ’tis well known, At this horrid News, Of Marlborough’s Triumph, Of Marlborough’s Triumph, All Battles I lose. Wherever he comes, He is bold and Victorious, Successful and glorious, My two Royal Thumbs With anguish I bite: To hear his Success; Yet nevertheless, My passion’s in vain: I pity my Darling, I pity my Darling, Young Philip in Spain. I am out of my Wits, If e’er I had any; My Foes they are many, Which plagues me by fits, In Flanders and Spain: I’m sick at my Heart, To think we must part, With what we enjoy’d, Towns, Castles, are taken, Towns, Castles, are taken, My Troops are destroy’d. I am I declare, In a weak Condition, Go call my Physician, And let him prepare Some comfort with speed, Without all delay, Assist me I pray, And hear my Complaint, A Dram of the Bottle, A Dram of the Bottle, Or else I shall faint. Should I slip my Breath, At this dreadful Season, I think it but Reason, I should lay my Death, To the daring Foes, Whose Fire and Smoak, Has certainly broke, The Heart in my Breast: Oh! bring me a Cordial, Oh! bring me a Cordial, And lay me to Rest.