Selected quad for the lemma: death_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
death_n	breath_n	die_v	life_n	4,005	5	4.5802	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A89942	A New ballad of an amorous coachman, who was so difficult in pleasing his love-sick fancy; that after his several addresses to the female sex, he was at last married: which made him cry out, Alass! my humour is so hard to please, that I find love, not love, but a disease ... : To the tune of, There was a brisk lass.		1690 (1690)	Wing N561A; ESTC R232856	1,508	2

A New BALLAD Of an Amorous Coachman Who was so difficult in pleasing his Love-sick Fancy that after his several Addresses to the Female Sex he was at last Married which made him cry out Alass my Humour is so hard to please That I find Love not Love but a Disease Yes a Disease that rages in my Heart And wounds my Amorous Soul in ev'ry part I love and loath and both within an hour So soon my Loathing Loving do's devour This may be Printed R. P. To the Tune of There was a brisk Lass I Went to the Fair to pick out a Wife That might be a comfort to my svveet Life On pretty black Nanny I cast a Sheeps eye And told her for Love I believ'd I shou'd dye I kist her a little and thought that her breath Had poysoned me so that I looked for Death She ●●ink as she stood like Carrion I 'le swear So I found that I 'de got the wrong Sow by the Eat To Jenney they wisht me indeed she was fair But a pox on he Carrots I lik'd not red hair Her skin I did lov● but her hair I did hate I ne'r in my Life cou●d love Carrot-pate She told me of combs ●●alter the hue But I'faith I thought the were like True blew And therefore in hast I had 〈◊〉 adieu And nimbly I tript to vvanton Sue Kind Sue quoth I I 'me come to Wooe Love perches methinks upon thy brow In troth cry'd she if thou meanest to be mine A pair of good Horns shall perch on thine This nettl'd me so that I ran away True words spoke in jest we often do say With head and with heart both brimful of pain Away I did scamper to Mrs. Jane She seem'd very coy it pleas'd me the more I lik'd her much better than all before In the Room was a bed to work we went And hardly ten minutes of time was spent Before I perceiv'd her Iewel was lost And thus my fond hopes and purpose were crost I thought it high-time the Coachman was fled Perceiving the want of her Maiden head The Second Part to the same Tune Then Mary and I walkt cut to take Air She had a fine skin and delicate hair I thought my self blest by the Pow'rs above For troth I was smitten and much in Love But she was cross and as peevish a Whore As any old Iade can be at threescore She thwarted me still in whatever I said And then I drove on to a nasty Iade Her name was Rebecca in holy-day Clothes She was smug and far sweeter than Munday-Rose When they were lock'd up she-look'd as black As the Mourning Suit on my Masters back I fancy the Sow and Pigs she trac'd For up to the knee her coat was lac'd Her Smock was as black as the Hood she wdre I bad her be gone for a nasty whore To Deborah then in hast I ran Her skin was as smooth as Feathers of Swan I told her I lov'd her and canted with Zeal And try'd by Religion her Pulse to feel But say what I would she answer'd me nay Thought I I shall not be marry'd to day She sigh'd and she whin'd when I askt her to marry She often would cry good Coachman tarry Then I sneakt off and to Dolly I went In whom I expected to find content But Dolly was damnable proud and high To the Coach-box before me she needs would fly I took up my Whip and I gave her a lick She said she abhorr'd me for that trick And now the poor Coachman must lye all alone For he 's envy'd by some and pittied by none But stay last of all his Fortunes to mend To Dorcas the Coach-man was wish'd by a Friend Who said she would make him amends for the loss Of all his old Sweethearts for she was not cross So the Coachman was married he thought to content But he ever since do's live to repent His Wife had some faults which I 'le tell you in brief She was a Pick-pockit a Whore a Thief Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in Pye-corner