The Despairing Lover:
BEING
A true Account of Joan Day, who shot herself with a Pistol, near Thame in Oxfordshire, on the 30th of May, 1698.
To the Tune of The Ruin'd Virgin Licens'd according to Order.
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COme Lovers all, and you shall hear,
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Near Thame, a Town in Oxfordshire,
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Upon the Thirtieth Day of May,
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A Virgin cast herself away.
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The Story's true which I do tell,
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As many Folks can witness well:
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She was entangled sore in Love,
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That nothing could her Grief remove.
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A Serving-man had gain'd her Heart,
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She wounded was by Cupid's Dart;
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But still she fear'd he was not true,
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Tho' Love did ev'ry Day renew.
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Oh! Jealousie! A Cruel Thing,
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It often does Destruction bring:
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For now it may be truly said,
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It caus'd the Death of this poor Maid.
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For Day by Day she did suspect,
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That he at last would her r[e]j[e]ct:
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Her Countenance began to change,
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And often by herself would range.
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She sigh'd and sob'd, and often said,
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I basely am by Love betray'd,
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And I no longer will endure,
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[s]ince I can find no Hope of Cure.
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And thus at last it came to pass,
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She found a Pistol Charged was?
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She smil'd, and clapt it to her Heart,
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Cry'd, Now I'll ease me of my Smart.
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Farewel both high and low Degree,
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Perfidious Man farewel to Thee:
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For now I will, what e're ensue,
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Remove my Grief; vain World adieu.
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My trembling Hand bids me forbear;
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My Conscience starts, and Death doth fear,
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But shall I be afraid to die?
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I am resolved, No not I.
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And when she had these Words exprest,
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She did Discharge it at her Breast:
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The Pistol giving a Report,
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Unto the Place some did resort;
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Where she lay Dead upon the Floor,
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And weltring in her Purple Gore:
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They stood a while and on her gaz'd,
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The dreadful sight made them amaz'd.
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Her true Love doth lament her case,
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That she should have so little Grace;
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He sore doth Weep, and beat his Breast,
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And Day and Night can take no Rest:
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He sighs and sobs, and makes great moan,
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And cries, Alas! My Love is gone;
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The Loss of her disturbs his Mind,
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No Ease, or Comfort he can find.
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I Charge you now true Lovers all,
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Take Warning by this Maiden's Fall:
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Be not too vi'lent in your Love,
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O[h]! Least it should your Ruine prove.
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