New England.
Alas, dear mother, fairest queen and best,
With honour, wealth, and peace happy and blest,
What ails thee hang thy head, and cross thine arms,
And sit i' the dust to sigh these sad alarms?
What deluge of new woes thus overflows
The glories of thy ever-conquering brows?
What means this wailing tone, this mournful guise?
Ah, tell thy daughter; she may sympathize.
Old England.
Art ignorant indeed of these my woes,
Or must my forced tongue these griefs disclose,
And must myself dissect my tatter'd state,
Which, mazed in error, now lies desolate?
But now, alas! I must bewail my fate.
Must I thus leave thee, New England, no more mate?
O, could I but my griefs lament, and rest,
Until my soul depart and fly to Heaven blest!
New England.
Dear mother, cease complaints, and wipe your eyes,
Shake off your dust, cheer up, and now arise.
You are my mother, nurse, I once your flesh,
Your sunken bowels, full of much excess,
My house of flesh, and that you left behind,
Heirs unto my virtues, not my state confined.
So fare it now; and so I end my lay.
But pray for me, O England, at the judgment day.