THE
London TRAGEDY:
OR,
Fair Elizabeth's unkind Cruelty to her dearest Johnny,
Who in dispair of her Love, Shot Himself with a Pistol in the Fields near
Hackney, on the 16th Day of this Instant August, 1698.
To the Tune of, Farewel my dear Johnny.
Licens'd and Enter'd according to Order.
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YOu Lovers, I pray you, be pleas'd to draw near,
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And you a sad Tragical Ditty shall hear;
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'Tis of a young Man, who in Lothbury dwelt,
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The Passion of Love, and sharp Sorrow he felt;
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Elizabeth she was the Joy of his Heart,
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And therefore her Frowns like a powerful Dart,
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Did wound him so deep, that he often would cry,
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There's none in the World so unhappy as I:
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Wherefore is my Dearest, so false and unkind?
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O! Why does she change like the wavering Wind?
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As if she took Pleasure, and Pride to destroy
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The Man who desires, her Love to enjoy.
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Here am I confin'd by the Fetters of Love,
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There's none in the Kingdom I value above
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Elizabeth Spencer, my Joy and Delight;
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Ah! Why will she labour to ruin me quite?
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I once was perswaded she never would grieve
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Her Johnny, whom she did in Kindness receive;
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But now she does cause an invincible Pain,
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Ah! what have I done to deserve her Disdain?
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Tell me, did I ever my Duty neglect?
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Have I not afforded the dearest Respect
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To fairest Elizabeth, whom I adore;
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Then why am I tortur'd, and slighted therefore?
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Your Company now I no longer must have,
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Therefore I'll rush on to my tragical Grave;
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Thro' Blood I will venter, the Minute draws nigh;
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Tis Sorrow to live, but a Pleasure to die.
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Sometimes these rash Thoughts, I endeavour'd to shun,
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Yet streight I resolv'd the black Deed shou'd be done;
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My Grief being more, than I am able to bear;
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For why should I live between Hope and Dispair?
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Perhaps when my Head, in the Grave shall be laid,
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You'll think of the Vows, which in private we made;
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You'll weep, and acknowledge your Scorn & Disdain[;]
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But 'twill not be Tears can recal me again.
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This Letter I write with a sorrowful Soul;
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Then when I'm departed perhaps you'll condole
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The Death of your Johnny, who n'er was unjust,
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With Tears you may spinkle my innocent Dust:
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For Conscience will live, when your Lover is dead;
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A million of Thoughts, may come then in your head,
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Which will be severe on your Spirits, I know,
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To check you my Dearest, who tortur'd me so.
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This Said, then a Pistol he took in his Hand,
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He never no longer disputing did stand,
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But shot himself, so he immeadiately fell,
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And bid both the World, and his Lover farewel.
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Now when he had given this desperate Wound,
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And that he lay Bleeding to Death on the Ground,
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Some Friends came about him, right sorry indeed;
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Then finding his Letter, 'twas printed with speed:
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That other young Damsels, henceforth may beware,
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How they leave their Lovers in Grief and Dispair;
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It is not their Duty to torture them so,
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The which may endanger their sad overthrow.
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