The forlorn Lovers La-
ment.
To the Tune of the bony Broom.
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SIr, do not think these Lines have flowd
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from youthful hearts or hands
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But from a friend, whos thrice conjoind
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in Hymens holy bands:
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Nor Charidora did not prove,
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by half so much unkind
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To Diaphanits, since his love,
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could never match my mind.
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Nor Coradon, who turnd his song,
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and sorrows to the Broom,
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Could never march with me in wrong,
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which shores me to consume:
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Poor lovers in this lovelesse age,
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are left to mourn alone,
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And wondred at by such as rage,
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my love to look upon.
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Even as the Lillie in the Hedge,
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is prickd on either side,
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So Im tormented by the rage,
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of those who swell with pride:
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The surgies of the swelling tide,
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and the walls broad that be,
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As yet they never could divide,
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my heart from loving thee.
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I live in anguish grief and smart,
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for thou enjoyest mine,
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And I must live without an heart,
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until thou send me thine:
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Which if thou could incline to do,
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it should such comfort send
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To me, who comfortlesse am now,
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and like my life to end.
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For I should take it as a pledge,
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since thou hast mine from me,
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Least I should die without an heart,
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let me have thine from thee:
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Then might we both together live,
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as one by hearts exchangd,
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But keeping both, if thou survive,
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just heavens will be avengd.
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But I will rest, in hope that thou,
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will send me answer kind,
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To me who lives in torment now,
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until I know thy mind.
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I do expect no frowns from thee,
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because I did presume,
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To send these lines, when minding me
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to sing them as the Broom.
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