THE
CONSTANT LADY,
AND
Fals Hearted Squire,
Being a
Relation of a Knights Daughter near
Woodstock in Oxford-shier, that dy'd for Love of
a Squire. To a New Tune.
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NEar Woodstock Town in Oxford shire
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As I Walk'd forth to take the Are,
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To vew the fields and Meadows Round,
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Me thought's I hear'd a Mournful Sound.
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Down by a Christal River side,
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A gallant Bower I espi'd
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Wher a fair Lady made great moan,
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With many a sigh and bitter Groan.
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Allas! quoth she, my love's unkind,
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My sight and Tear's he will not mind,
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But is so cruel unto me,
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Which Causes all my Misiry.
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My father is a worthy Knight,
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My Mother she a Lady bright,
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And I their child and only heir,
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Yet love his brought me to dispair.
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A wealthy Esquire lives hard by,
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Who an my Beauty cast an Eye;
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He courted me both day and night,
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For to be his Jewel and delight.
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To me these words he often said,
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Fair Beautious Lady, lovly maid,
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Oh! pitty me I you Imploar,
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For it' is you I do adore
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He still did beg me to be kind,
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And ease his love Tormented mind,
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For if, says he you should deny,
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For love of you alass I dye.
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These words did peirce my tender heart
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I soon did yeald to ease his Smart,
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And unto him made this reply,
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Dear Sir for me you shall not dye.
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With that he flew unto my Aarmes,
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And swore I had a thousand Charms,
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He call'd me Angel, Saint, and he,
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Did sware for ever true to be.
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Soon after he had gaind my Heart,
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He cruelly from me did part,
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An other Maid he does pursue,
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And to all his Vows has bid adieu.
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Tis he that makes me to Lament,
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He causes all my discontent,
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Tis he that causes my dispair,
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Tis he's the cause of all my care.
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This Lady round the Meadow run,
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And geather'd flowers where they sprung
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Of every sort she there did pull,
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Until she had her Apron ful.
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There is a Flower she did say,
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Tis call'd hearts ease by night and day,
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I wish I could that Flower find,
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For to ease my heart and cure my mind.
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But oh! alass it is in vain,
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For me to sigh or to complane,
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Theres nothing now can ease my smart,
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For his disdain has broak my Heart,
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The Green it serv'd me for a Bed,
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The Flowers Pillows for my Head,
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I lay'd me down and no more Spoak,
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But a lass for love my heart Broak.
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But when I found he Corps was cold,
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I went to her fals Love and told.
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What unto this fair Maid befel,
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I am glad, quoth he, she is so well.
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Oh did she think I so fond would be,
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That would fancy none but she,
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Man was not Made for one a lone,
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For I take delight to hear their moan.
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Oh! Cruel man I find thou art,
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Thus for to berak a Virgins Heart,
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In Abraham's Bosom may she Sleep,
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While they Tormented Soul shall weep:
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