THE
Dorset-shire Tragedy:
OR, A
Shepherd's Daughter's Death and Distruction
by a false Steward, her Fellow-servant, and likewise end-
ed his own Days in desperate Despair.
To the Tune of, The Ruined Virgin.
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A Damsel with a Knight lived of late,
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She was a Beauty bright of low Estate,
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A Shepherd's Daughter dear,
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In famous Dorset-shire;
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But Fortune prov'd severe as you shall find.
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While she in Service dwelt their Steward he
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Prete[n]ded that he felt Captivity,
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And Sorrow for her sake,
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Said he, Some pity take,
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Or else my Heart will break, Dearest, he cry'd,
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The charming Bliss, he cry'd, let me enjoy,
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For thou shalt be my Bride, Love, be not coy,
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Doubt not my loyalty,
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If I am false to thee,
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Let Vengeance follow me for mine Offence.
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From her fond Arms she flung, and frowns did cast,
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Yet his deluding Tongue gain'd her at last,
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So that she prov'd with Child;
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Then this young Damsel mild,
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Finding herself defil'd, her Grief was great.
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Now when he understood her woful case,
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He led her to a Wood, where for a space
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They wander'd hand in hand,
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From loansome land to land,
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She could not understand what it did mean.
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To him she made her moan, with melting Eyes,
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As they was all alone, these was her Cries,
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Make me your lawful Wife,
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Or end my wretched Life:
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This said, he drew his Knife and wounded her.
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Down at his Feet she fell, and bleeding lay,
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Crying, False Love farewel, now, now this day,
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Here I am laid full low,
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Yet of a truth I know,
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You'll not unpunish'd go for thine Offence.
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There was no living Soul but you and I,
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That see this horrid, foul, black villany;
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Yet when I am at rest,
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Conscience shall you molest:
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She having this exprest, closed her Eyes,
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The Steward left her there cover'd with green,
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Close in a Thicket where she'd not be seen:
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As home his coast he stear'd,
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A frightful Voice he heard,
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Crying, You are not clear'd of Murther so.
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Conscience continually flew in his Face,
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Likewise a dreadful Cry, in e'ry place,
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Follow'd him Night and Day,
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False Steward come away,
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And make no long delay, you must be Try'd,
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When he laid down his Head to close his Eyes,
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He heard all round his Bed the wanted Cries,
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Which so disturb'd his Rest,
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That he smote on his Breast,
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Crying, I am opprest, where should I go.
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Sometimes her bleeding Ghost in flames appear'd
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Saying, You shall not boast that you are clear'd,
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Who wrought my fatal Fall,
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For Vengeance still I call,
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Alive or dead you shall have your reward.
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This Soul amazing grief he could not bear,
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And therefore to be brief, in said despair
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He took that very Knife,
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And cut the Thread of Life,
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That he might end the strife and follow her.
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He left these Lines behind, written in Bl[o]od.
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Dearest, I prov'd unkind, therefore a flood
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Of Tears and wreaking Gore,
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Now, now, must waft me o're
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To that eternal Shore were thou dost dwell.
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