Loves Lunacie.
Or,
Mad Besses Fegary.
Declaring her sorrow, care and mone,
Which may cause many a sigh and grone:
A Young-man did this Maid some wrong,
Wherefore she writ this mournfull Song.
To the Tune of, The mad mans Morris.
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POore Besse, mad Besse, so they call me,
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Im metamorphosed;
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Strange sights and visions I doe see,
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by Furies I am led:
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Tom was the cause of all my woe,
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to him I loudly cry,
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My love to him theres none doth know,
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yet heere he lets me lie.
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This Bethlem is a place of torment,
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heeres fearfull notes still sounding;
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Heere minds are fild with discontent,
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and terrors still abounding.
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Some shake their chaines in wofull wise,
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some sweare, some curse, some roaring,
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Some shrieking out with fearfull cries,
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and some their cloaths are tearing.
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O curst Alecto that fierce fury,
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Megara, Tysiphon!
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Are governours of my late glory;
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wise Pallas me doth shun:
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My jems, my jewels and my earings,
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are turnd to iron fetters;
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They now doe serve for others wearings,
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such as are now my betters.
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Orcades Fairies now doe lead me,
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Ore mountaines, hils and valleys,
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Naiades doth through waters drive me,
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and Brizo with me dallies:
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O sometimes I dreame of my Tom,
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then with my folded armes
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I him embrace, saying welcome,
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but waking breeds my harmes.
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Adrastea now robbeth me,
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of all my wit and patience,
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Angarona will not receive me,
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to live in peace and silence:
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My mind runs on my fine apparell,
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which once did fit my wearing:
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Then with my selfe I seeme to quarrell,
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my rags I fall to tearing.
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O once I was as faire as Briseis,
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and chast as was Cassandra,
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But living voyd of joy and blisses,
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Im Hero to Leander:
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For as chast Hero her selfe drowned,
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so I am dround in sorrow;
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The Fates on me hath sorely frowned,
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no patience I can borrow.
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The second part, To the same tune.
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IM like to faire Philomela,
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by Tereus basely ravished;
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Yet when his burning lust did thaw,
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he closely her imprisoned:
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And even so Im quite defloured
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by Tom of all my senses;
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My love and meanes he hath devowred,
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making no recompences.
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You Gods and all you Goddesses,
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pray listen to my mourning,
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And grace me with this happinesse,
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to see my Toms returning.
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Or if you will not grant me this,
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to send him hither to me,
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Send me but word whereas he is,
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and Tom, Ile come unto thee.
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If that he be in God Marses traine,
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where armour brightly glisters;
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Be sure Ile fetch him home againe,
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in spight of the three Sisters:
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Or if he be in Venus Court,
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where Cupid shoots his arrowes:
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Ile fetch him thence from all his sport,
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onely to ease my sorrowes.
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Stay, who comes here? tis the sisters three,
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which lately I did mention,
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I doubt they come to chide with me
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and hinder my intention.
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Clotho brings wool, Lachesis doth spin,
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Atropos cuts asunder;
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Now Ile away and not be seene,
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each one is my Commander.
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You Maids and Virgins faire and pure
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note well my carefull calling,
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You cannot thinke what I endure,
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Cupid hath causd my falling:
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When I was as now many be,
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free from God Cupids arrowes,
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I would have smild at any shee,
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that should tell me of sorrowes.
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My lodging once was soft and easie,
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my garments silke and sattin;
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Now in a locke of straw I lie,
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this is a wofull pattin:
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My diet once was choise and fine,
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all which did not content me;
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Now I drinke water, once good wine
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was naught unlesse twere sent mee.
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Thus pride and love together joynd
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to worke my utter ruine;
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They wrought my discontent in mind,
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which causes my undoing.
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And thus good people all adue,
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perhaps you nere may see me,
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Farewell I bid once more to you,
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Im grieved sore believe me.
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But if you chance once more to come,
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bring tidings from my dearest,
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By all meanes bring my true love Tom,
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hees welcomst when hees neerest:
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The day is past, and night is come,
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and here comes our commander;
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Heel locke me into a darke roome,
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tis sorrowes chiefest Chamber.
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