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EBBA 22117

Magdalene College - Pepys
Ballad XSLT Template
An ANSWER
TO THE
Despairing LOVER:
OR,
The Serving-man's sorrowful Lamentation for the Death of his Love, who rashly kill'd her-
self on the Thirtieth of May, 1698, with a Pistol-Bullet, near Towne, in Oxfordshire. Tune of,
The Ruined Virgin. Licens'd and Enter'd according to Order.

WHat dismal tydings do I hear,
The sad destruction of my Dear;
She's gone, and I am left behind
To weep, and can no comfort find,

She set her love upon me so,
That it has prov'd her overthrow;
And now her death; I do lament
In bitter tears of discontent.

Why did I leave her in despair!
Why did I cause her grief and care!
Alas, alas, I am to blame,
How shall I answer for the same?

No tongue is able to express,
The grief of heart and heaviness,
Which lies upon my Spirits here,
Alas, my grief is too severe.

What protestation did I make,
That I would not my Dear forsake;
Yet ne'rtheless from her I stay'd,
And this has her dear life betray'd?

Alas! alas! My true Love Joan,
She's gone and I am left alone,
To tell the woful tragedy,
The product of her jealousie.

Upon the thirtieth Day of May,
It seems a loaded Pistol lay,
Before her at a time of grief;
She shot herself to find relief:

She reasoned with herself a while,
In hopes thereby to reconcile
Her passion, but, alas! in vain,
For in a minuite she was slain.

The bullet pierc'd her bleeding heart,
Death seiz'd her strait in e'ry part;
While in her wreaking gore she lay;
It was a sad and dismal day.

Wou'd I that minute had been there,
And heard her words of sad despair;
I would have staid her cruel hand,
As she with grief did weeping stand.

But oh, these wishes are in vain,
She's gone, she's gone, my Dear is slain,
And in the silent grave she lies,
While I remain with weeping eyes.

Oh! Why did cruel Fortune lay,
That loaded Pistol in her way,
To give the oppertunity,
To such despairing Souls as she?

When e're I lie me down to rest,
I am so much with grief opprest,
That there I startle in my sleep,
And wake, I can't forbear to weep.

You loyal Lovers far and near,
That shall this sad relation hear,
Be not so rashly drawn aside,
Lete Rason be your rule and guide.


London: Printed for J. Shooter.

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