A New SONG of a Fickle and Unconstant LOVER,
Who gave her Sweetheart the occasion of writing these following Lines.
Dissembling Lovers ought to be abhor'd,
As constant Lovers ought to be ador'd:
A faithful Lover I will crown with fame,
But faithless Lovers with eternal shame.
A Lover like to mine all mortals hate;
But the true Lover shou'd not meet ill fate:
To her whose love and whose affection's true,
My Knees as at an Altar, still shall bow.
To a new Play-House Tune. This may be printed , R. P.
|
O H! so ungrateful a Creature
|
ne'r could I thought you to be;
|
First to abuse my good Nature,
|
laugh at my simplicity!
|
You above all had least reason
|
so to abuse my poor heart;
|
But if another had done it,
|
you ought to have taken my part.
|
Curse of your cunning proceeding;
|
curse of your p[ri]vate and more;
|
While my poor heart lyes a bleeding,
|
may you be double curst o're.
|
Was you but kind as you are cruel,
|
then you may talk of a bliss;
|
But you preserve me for fuel:
|
oh! what a Tyrant is this!
|
E're since my sorrows has lasted,
|
here you triumph in disdain;
|
Now may your Beauty be blasted,
|
never returning again:
|
My height of Anger advances,
|
Love I have turned to Hate;
|
Why should these beautiful glances
|
kill at so cruel a rate?
|
|
|
|
|
The Second Part, to the same Tune.
|
May Cupid revenge this affront
|
and gall your dissembling heart:
|
May you love and be hated still
|
by the force of his wounding Dart.
|
May you sigh, may you weep and howl
|
for some pretty fellow in vain:
|
May you dote upon some silly Owl,
|
that never can love you again.
|
May you pine like a whey-fac'd Lass
|
with the Green-sickness o're-prest;
|
And still as the streets you pass,
|
may you cry out for rest.
|
And may all young maids beware
|
how e're they prove false to their Love,
|
Lest they be catch'd in your snare,
|
from whence they shall never remove.
|
Nothing by me is more hated
|
than a dissembling Heart;
|
See how the Argument's stated,
|
'twounds with the cruellest smart:
|
But a true Lover i'le honour,
|
she that is free from that blame,
|
Evermore doting upon her,
|
Crown her with Glory and Fame.
|
This pitty is taken away,
|
this shame doth remain in its place,
|
Thy love is gone far astray,
|
and paleness triumphs in thy Face.
|
Go Love if thou canst, but I fear
|
'tis in vain that Lesson to learn:
|
Thou that once was my Love and my Dear,
|
no Beauty in thee I discern.
|
But shall I blame all for thee,
|
because of thy fickle disdain,
|
Some Shepherdess often we see
|
constant and kind to her Swain:
|
Such Lovers shall Garlands wear,
|
such I must needs commend;
|
For such I will alwaies appear
|
until my frail life shall END .
|
|
|
|
|