The Life of LOVE.
Let he or she, from Chains are free,
prize high their Liberty.
Loves a Disease that seems to please
yet breeds Captivity.
To the Tune of, The Fair one let me In: Or, Busie Fame,
This may be Printed, R. P.
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ALL you that do in Love delight,
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now mind what I relate;
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And give your judgement now aright,
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of this my cruel Fate:
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I loved one most tenderly.
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that lovd not me again:
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Though I for him could freely dye,
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he pays me with disdain.
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And yet upon him I must dote,
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O what a Fool am I:
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Though yet I love him well I knowt,
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tis meer Simplicity,
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To mourn for him who laughs at me,
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ith midst of all my pain;
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When he should be most kind to me,
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He doth me most disdain.
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Hard hap I had in this my Choice,
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to meet one so unkind;
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Whilst others sweetly do rejoyce,
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no Comfort I can find:
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But sighing waste myself away,
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and linger in my Chain;
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I pine for him both night and day,
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that doth me still disdain.
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This is Unjustice to the heighth,
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that Reason contradicts;
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Both night and day for him to sigh,
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that my poor heart afflicts:
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Oh! I had rather chuse to dye,
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then in this state remain,
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Tis worse then Death assuredly,
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to meet with such disdain.
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WEll since I must this grief endure,
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ile now resign my breath;
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For being past all hopes of Cure,
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I covet for my Death:
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For I shall never quiet be,
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while I do here remain;
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Come Death and strike immediately,
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then farewell his disdain.
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Then down her Cheeks the tears did run
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and oft she wisht in vain;
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For that which could not well be won,
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which much encreasd her pain,
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Come Death, quoth she, & Pierce my heart,
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let me no more complain;
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I long to feel thy killing dart,
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since he doth me disdain.
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The Young-Mans Loving answer.
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MY dear youre too too much unkind
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against me thus to speak;
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For thou shalt see I will prove kind,
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thy heart it shall not break:
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For every tear that thou hast spent,
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I bottle up in store;
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Believe me Love, tis my intent,
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that thou shouldst grieve no more.
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No no, forbear to mourn for me,
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who loves thee tenderly,
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I will be faithful unto thee,
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and constant till I dye:
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Thou art an Angel unto me,
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tis thee I do adore;
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In thee alone I do delight,
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then grieve for me no more.
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It piercd me through my tender heart,
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to hear thee thus complain;
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It is not in the power of art,
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to make me thee disdain:
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My Love is spotless I protest,
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none ere lovd so before;
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My dear, I do not speak in jest,
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then grieve for me no more.
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Let this my Love a pattern be,
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to all both young and old;
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Who say, they love unfeignedly,
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but yet I dare be bold
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To say, that many do deceive,
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for scarce one in a Score,
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That say they love you may believe,
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but mind such Blades no more.
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