MONTROSES LYNES (43)
or A Proper New BALLAD,
To the Tune of Ile never Love thee more.
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MY dear and only love I pray
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that little World of thee,
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Be governd by no other sway,
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but purest Monarchie.
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For if Confusion have a part,
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which vertuous souls abhore
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Ile call a Synod in my heart,
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and never love thee more.
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As Alexander I will reign,
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and I will reign alone;
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My thoughts did ever yet disdain
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a Rival on my Throne,
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He either fears his fate too much,
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or his deserts are small,
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That dares not put it to the touch,
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to gain or lose at all.
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But I will reign and govern still,
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and alwayes give the Law
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And have each Subject at my will,
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and all to stand in aw:
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But gainst my Batteries if I find
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thou kick or vex me sore,
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An that thou set me up a blind,
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Ile never love thee more,
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And in the Empire of thy heart
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where I should solely be
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If others do pretend a part,
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or dares to share with me:
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Or Committees if thou erect,
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and go on such a score:
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Ile laugh and smile at thy neglect,
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and never love thee more.
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But if thou will prove faithful then,
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and constant in thy word,
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Ile make thee glorious by my Pen,
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and famous by my Sword.
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Ile serve thee in such Noble sort
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was never heard before,
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Ile crown and deck thy head with bays
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and love thee more and more.
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The Second Part.
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My dear and only love take heed
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how thou thy self expose,
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Let not a longing Lovers feed
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upon such looks as those:
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Ile marble wall thee round about,
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my self shall be the door,
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And if thy heart chance to slide out,
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Ile never love thee more.
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Let not thy oaths like volies shot,
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make any breach at all,
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Nor smoothness of their language plot
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which way to scale the wall;
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Nor balls of Wild-fire love consume
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the Shrine which I adore,
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For If such smoak about thee foam,
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Ile never love thee more.
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I know thy vertues be too strong
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to suffer by surprise;
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If that thou slights their love so long,
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their siege at last will rise,
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And leave thee conqueror in thy health
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and state thou was before,
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And if thou prove a common wealth
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Ile never love thee more.
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But if by fraud, or by deceit,
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thy heart to ruine come,
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Ile sound no Trumpet as I wont,
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nor march by tuck of Drum:
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But hold my arms as Ensigns up,
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thy falshood to deplore;
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And after sigh, and bitter weep,
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that ere I lovd so sore.
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Ile do with thee as Nero did,
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when Rome he set on fire:
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Not only all relief forbid
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but to an hill retire:
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And scorn to shed a tear to save
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thy spirit grown so poor,
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But laugh and smile thee to thy grave
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and never love thee more.
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Then shall my heart be set by thine,
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but in far different case,
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For mine was true; so was not thine
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but lookt like Janus face:
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Thy beauty shind at first so bright
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and woe is me therefore,
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That ere I found the love so bright,
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that I could love no more.
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My heart shall with the Sun be fixt,
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for constancie most strange;
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And thine shall with thee Moon be mixt
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delighting still in change:
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For as thou waves with everie wind,
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and sails through everie shore.
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And leaves my constant heart behind,
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how can I love thee more?
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Yet for the love I bare thee once,
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lest that thy Name should die;
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A monument of Marble stone,
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the truth shall testifie;
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That every Pilgrim passing by
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may pity and deplore;
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And sighing read the reason why
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I cannot love thee more.
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The golden Laws of love shall be,
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upon these Pillars hung,
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A single heart, a simple eye,
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a true and constant tongue,
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Let no man for mere loves pretend,
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that he hath hearts in store:
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True love begun will never end,
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love one and love no more.
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And when all gallants lead about,
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this Monument to view,
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Its written both within and out,
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thourt treacherous I true:
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Then in a passion they shall pause,
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and thus ly sighing sore,
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Alas he had too just a cause,
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never to love thee more.
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And when the tressing gods do face,
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from East to West doth flee,
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They shall record it to thy shame;
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how thou hast loved me:
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And how in odds our loves been such
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as few hath been before,
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Thou lovd too many, I too much:
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that I can love no more.
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The misty mounts, the smoking lakes,
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the Rocks resounding echo,
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The whistling winds, the woods that shake,
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shall all with me sing hey ho:
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The tosting seas, the tumbling boats,
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tears droping from each Oar,
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Shall tune with me their turtle notes,
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Ile never love thee more.
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Yet as the turtle chast and true,
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her fellow so regrates,
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And daily sighs for her adieu,
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that nere renews her notes.
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But though thy faith was never fast,
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which grieves me wondrous sore,
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Yet I shall live in love so chast,
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that I shall love no more.
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