Constant CLORIS OR, Her lamentation for Mirtillo. Who was killed in Ireland, before he was Married to her, and she for Grief and Dispair stabbed herself.  
To the Tune of, Celia that I once was blest.  
Licenced according to Order.  

1.  
CLoris in a Myrtle Grove,  
Sat bemoaning of her love  
To the Turtles, on the myrtles,  
Perching on the twigs above;  
She unto them thus lay crying,  

Come and see a Lover dying.  
She unto, etc.    

2.  
My Mirtillo he is dead,  
His soul to the Elezium's fled,  
You that Cooing set and Wooing,  
View me on my gloomy Bed;  
O kind Death thy dart is killing,  
And my soul with sorrows filling.  

O kind, etc.    

3.  
I implore thee make me blest,  
Rob no more my soul of rest,  
For delaying worse than staying,  
wast me to Mirtillo's breast;  
O Mirtillo where thou'rt roaming,  
My impatient soul is coming.  

O Mirtillo, etc.    

4.  
Dear Mirtillo is withdrawn  
To an Everlasting dawn,  
He hath left me, and bereavest me  
Of those Eyes I doted on;  
But I will not stay behind him,  
I will seek him till I find him.  

But I will, etc.    

5.  
I'll pursue his lovely Ghost,  
And rush among the Crying Host,  
ne'er abhor him, but seek for him  
On the sweet Elezium Coast,  
For Mirtillo I'll Inquire,  
By my looks display my sire,  

For Mirtillo, etc.    

6.  
My hated hours slowly pass,  
Come Death dissolve this loathsome mass  
Time is mowing, hours going,  
Yet there's minutes in my glass,  
But Mirtillo I will shake it,  
For revenge myself will break it,  

But Mirtillo, etc.    

7.  
My eager soul shall pass away,  
To live in Everlasting Day,  
My Mirtilo, by the willow,  
〈◊〉 Does bewail my tedious stay,  
Love does always hate delaying,  
Where 'tis fixed is no gainsaying.  

Love does, etc.    

8.  
Then a bloody knife she took,  
And with a ghastly dying look,  
Her heart she pierced, love rehearsed,  
And this life she soon forsook,  
Weltering in her gore she cried,  

Dear Mirtillo, and so died.  
Weltering in her, etc.    

9  
Fortune had no sooner frowned,  
And she received the fatal Wound,  
But the Turtles on the Myrtles,  
Was with grief encompassed round,  
And the small Birds mournful singing,  
Was her Pasing-Bell then ringing.  

And the, etc.    
FINIS.   

Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in Pie-corner.