The Dying Lovers
Complaint.
Daphne laments cause Strephon is unkind,
Wanting his love no comfort he can find,
And missing that which she desires to have,
Poor Daphne sighs her selfe into the Grave.
Tune of Young Phaon.
|
I Am quite undone my cruel one
|
has me forsaken quite,
|
He is the man, in whom I can
|
take pleasure and delight.
|
But hes unkind and now I find
|
my thred is almost spun,
|
here I lament in discontent
|
alass Ime quite undone.
|
Whilest others sleep I mourn and weep
|
in tears Im almost drownd,
|
When absent he is gone from me,
|
No comfort can be found.
|
In slumbring dreams methinks he seems
|
to be full kind to me,
|
But when I wake this great mistake
|
brings sorrow certainly.
|
|
|
|
|
The second part, To the
same tune.
|
My Golden hair I rent and tear
|
like one outragious mad,
|
Cupid say I, I thee defie
|
thou wicked wanton Lad.
|
A minute then scarce past agen
|
ere I do him implore,
|
Cupid say I, thy deity
|
I ever will adore.
|
Thus do I pass my dayes alass
|
and can no pleasure find,
|
I sigh and cry continually
|
hes cruel and unkind.
|
Twice in a breath I wish for death,
|
such torments I endure,
|
Except hes kind I ner shall find,
|
nor hope to get a cure.
|
Then down I lye in hopes to dye,
|
ere him I see again,
|
But thoughts of him brings life again
|
and thus prolongs my pain.
|
Both curd and killd, blood shed & spilld,
|
all in a Moment is,
|
From death could he again fetch me.
|
with one poor smile and kiss,
|
Thus do I turn I freiz and burn
|
in a most strange condition,
|
No Doctors Art can cure my smart
|
except he prove Physitian,
|
But hopes of that must be forgot
|
and I must to the grave.
|
Come welcome death and stop my breath
|
that I some rest may have.
|
|
|
|
|