Totterdown hill

At Totterdown-hill there dwelt an old pair, And it may be they dwell there still, Much riches indeed did'nt fall to their share, They kept a small farm and a mill. But fully content with what they did get, They knew not of guile or of arts; One daughter they had, and her name it was Bet, And she was the pride of their hearts.

Nut-brown were her locks, her shape it was straight, Her eyes were as black as a sloe: Her teeth were milk-white, full smart was her gait, And sleek was her skin as a doe: All thick were the clouds, and the rain it did pour, No bit of true blue could be spy'd, A child, wet and cold, came and knock'd at the door, Its Mam it had lost, and it cry'd,

Young Bet was as mild as the mornings of May, The babe she hugg'd close to her breast; She chaf'd him all o'er, and smil'd as he lay, She kiss'd him, and lull'd him to rest: But who do you think she had got for her prize? Why Love, the sly master of arts; No sooner he wak'd, but he drop'd his disguise, And shew'd her his wings and his darts.

Quoth he, I am Love; but, oh, be not afraid Tho' all I make shake at my will: So good and kind have you been, my fair maid, No harm shall you feel from my skill; My mother ne'er dealt with such fondness by me, A friend you shall find in me still; Take my quiver and shoot, be greater than she, The Venus of Totterdownhill.