The diseased Maiden Lover.
Being a pleasant new court Song: To an exeellent new tune,
Or to be sung to the tune of Bonny Nell.
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AS I went forth one Summers day,
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To view the Meddowes fresh and gay,
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A pleasant Bower I espi'd,
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Standing hard by a Rivers side:
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and in't I heard a Mayden cry,
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alas, there's none ere lov'd like I.
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I couched close to heare her moane,
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With many a heavie groane,
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And wisht that I had beene the wight,
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That might have bred her hearts delight:
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but these were all the words that she,
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did still repeat, none loves like me.
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Then round the Meddowes did she walke,
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Catching each flower by the stalke,
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Such as within the Meddowes grew.
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As Dead-mans thumbe, and Hare-bell blue:
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and as she pluckt them, still cryde she,
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alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.
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A bed therein she made to lie:
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Of fine greene things that grew fast by,
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Of Poplers, and of Willow leaves,
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Of Sicamore and Flaggy sheaves:
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and as she pluckt them, still cryde she,
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alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.
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The little Lark-foote shee'd not passe,
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Nor yet the flowers of Three-leav'd grasse,
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With Milkemayds Honny Succles phraise,
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The Crowes foot, nor the yellow Crayse,
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and as she pluckt them, still cride she,
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alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.
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The pretty Dasie which doth show
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Her love to Phoebus, bred her woe;
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Who joyes to see his cheerefull face,
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And mournes when he is not in place,
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alacke, alacke, alacke, quoth she,
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there's none that ever lov'd like me.
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The Flowers of the Sweetest sent,
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She bound them round with knotted Bent,
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And as she layd them still in bands,
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She wept, she wayl'd, and wrung her hands,
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alas, alas, alas, quoth she,
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there's none that ever lov'd like me.
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False man, quoth she, forgive thee heaven,
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As I doe wish my sinnes forgiven,
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In blest Elizium I shall sleepe,
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When thou with perjur'd soules shalt weep
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who when they liv'd, did like to thee,
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that lov'd their Loves as thou dost mee.
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When she had fild her Apron full,
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Of such sweet Flowers as she could cull;
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The greene leaves serv'd her for a Bed,
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The Flowers pillowes for her head,
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Then down she lay, ne're more did speake,
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alas with love her heart did breake.
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F I N I S.
Printed at London for J. Wright.
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The Faithlesse Lover.
To the same tune.
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WHen I had seene this Virgins end,
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I sorrowed as became a friend,
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And wept to see that such a Mayd
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Should be by faithlesse love betrayd.
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but woe (I feare) will come to thee,
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that was not true in love as shee.
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The Birds did cease their Harmony,
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The harmelesse Lambs did seeme to cry,
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The Flowers they did hang their head,
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The Flower of Maydens being dead,
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whose life by death is now set free,
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and none did love more deare than shee.
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The bubbling brookes did seeme to moane,
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And Eccho from the Vales did groane;
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Diana's Nimphs did ring her knell,
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And to their Queene the same did tell,
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who vowed by her chastitie,
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that none should take revenge but she.
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When as I saw her corps were cold,
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I to her Lover went, and told
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What chance unto this Mayd befell,
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Who sayd, I am glad she sped so well.
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d'ee thinke that I so fond would bee,
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to love no Mayde but onely shee?
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I was not made for one alone,
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I take delight to heare them moane;
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When one is gone, I will have more:
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That man is rich, that hath most store,
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I bondage hate, I must live free,
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and not be ty'd to such as shee.
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Oh Sir, remember, (then quoth I)
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The power of Heavens All-seeing eye,
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Who doth remember vowes forgot,
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Though you denie you know it not:
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call to your minde this Mayden free,
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the which was wrong'd by none but thee.
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Quoth he, I have a love more faire,
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Besides, she is her Fathers heire,
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A bonny Lasse doth please my minde,
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That unto me is wondrous kinde:
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her will I love, and none but she,
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who still shall welcome be to me.
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False-minded man that so would prove,
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Disloyall to thy dearest Love,
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Who at her death for thee did pray,
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And wisht thee many a happy day.
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I would my Love would but love me,
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even halfe so well as shee lov'd thee.
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Faire Maydens will example take,
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Young-men will curse thee for her sake:
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They'l stop their eares unto our plaints,
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And call us Devils seeming Saints:
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they'l say to day, that we are kinde,
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tomorrow of another minde.
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FINIS.
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