True Love Exalted: Or, A Dialogue between a Courteous young Knight of the City of London, and a Serge Weavers Daughter of Devonshire.  
Showing how the young Knight was Travelling in Devon-shire, and fell in Love with a fair Maid there: How he Courted her to be his Miss, but she not yielding to his Lascivious desires, he was so much in Love with her Virtue, that he Married her, and made her a Lady, and carried her to the King's Court at London, where they now live in joy and happiness.  
The Tune is, Tender Hearts, etc.  
 
 
The Author speaks. 
IN the West in Devon-shire,  
Lived a Maid of Beauty rare,  
pretty Peggy as her name;  
So much Beauty, so much Duty  
Peggy there had all the Fame,   

Wheresoever that you are walking,  
Or of whatsoever talking,  
pretty Peggy must come in;  
So much Beauty, so much Duty,  
not to worship were a Sin.   

Fate that many a one does flatter,  
Told of this the truth o'th' matter,  
to a young and lovely Knight;  
One loved Pleasure, more than Treasure  
beauty was his chief delight.   

Strait he was with Love involved,  
and to try it was resolved  
if that Peggy would be kind,  
But did never, meet with ever,  
such a Face, or such a mind.   

The Knight:  
When he first beheld the Creature,  
All her Charms were sent by Nature,  
neither Spots nor Tower she wore:  
But was singing, and a Spinning,  
at her poor old Father's door.   

Peggy.  
When she saw him she retired,  
But his senses were so fired,  
at the little interview;  
Stay, he said, thou lovely Maid,  
for now I swear report is true.   
 
 

Strait ways, than he ●ent unto her,  
And with all his art did woe her,  
kissed her hands and blest her eyes:  
Proffered her Treasure for his Pleasure,  
but alas! she still denies.   

Golden promises he made her,  
And with vows would fain persuade her,  
but her virtue was too strong:  
All his art, ne'er wrought her heart,  
though poor Peggy was but young.   

Quoth he, dear Peggy, be not cruel,  
To yourself and me my jewel,  
Leave your homely Rurial Sport,  
Be but mine thou shalt shine,  
amongst the Glorious stars at Court.   

All the Pride of London City,  
That can make proud Lady's pretty,  
what the Changes affords thats rare,  
All shall be, my dear for thee,  
and none with Peggy may compare.   Peggys' Answer. 

Sir, quoth she, do not endeavour,  
The poor Daughter of a Weaver,  
has a heart of virtuous mould;  
That no pride, can draw aside,  
to be corrupted by your Gold.   The Knight. 

Then quoth he, dear Peggy may be  
You'll deny to be a Lady,  
tell me how that suits your mind,   

Sir, quoth she, my poor degree,  
is still to humble thoughts confined.   

For that, quoth he, I ne'er will fault thee,  
But for humbleness exhalt thee,  
thou this day my Bride shall be,   

Then he tarried till they married,  
and Lady Margaret was she,   The Author. 

You may think her friends consented,  
And that she was well contented:  
and I'm sure so was the Knight;  
All the day they kiss and play,  
and God knows what they did at night.   

Now you see how she regarded,  
For her virtue how rewarded,  
made a Lady for her parts;  
Raised to power, without Dower,  
only by her own deserts.   

You that would be great as she is,  
And would have a Knight as he is,  
let her Virtues be your guide,  
To London fair, they did repair,  
the Knight and his beloved Bride.   

Now she hath no other care,  
But to please her only Dear,  
serve her Father and her Knight,  
All his Treasure's at her pleasure,  
he her joy, she his Delight.    

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