The Lovers complaint
for the losse of his Love.
To a pleasant new tune.
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I Wander up and downe,
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and nobody cares for me,
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Though I am but poore and browne,
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yet constant will I be:
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My dearest love farewell,
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a thousand times adew,
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Seeing thou hast forsaken me,
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and changed me for a new:
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I never gave thee cause,
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why thou shouldst me forsake,
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Nor never brake the faithfull vow
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that you and I did make:
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Farwell my dearest love,
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I tooke thee at thy word,
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Hard hap had I to beate the bush,
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and another to catch the bird.
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I will goe range abroad,
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Ile find some other thing:
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If I had knowne you would have flowne,
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I would have clipt your wing:
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Would you have clipt my wing,
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she answered me againe,
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You might have done it in the wood,
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you know the time and when.
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Farewell my dearest love,
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to thee I made my sute,
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Hard hap had I to graft the tree,
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another to reape the fruite,
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I alwaies waile in woe,
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I travile still in paine,
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I see my true love where shee goes,
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I hope shee'l come againe.
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I heard a pretty tune,
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concerning to a song:
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A lover mourning for his love,
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and said she did him wrong:
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He had her in the wood,
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he might have wrought his will,
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Pittie it was to doe him good
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that had no better skill.
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In woods or desert place,
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had I ere my love so,
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I thinke I would have plaid with her,
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before I had let her goe:
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Had she bin light of love,
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I should have soone espied:
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I trow I would a clipt her wing,
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and caus'd her to abide.
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Should I let scape the Bird,
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that I had fast on fist:
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Then let her laugh and scoffe at me,
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and use me as she list.
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He still doth beate the bush,
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although the bird be lost:
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And being slothfull in his suit,
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thus fortune hath him crost.
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If with my love in woods,
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so happy were I sped,
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I should suppose my hap were hard,
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to misse her maiden head,
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Good friend be ruld by me,
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that made this mortall song,
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If thou wander up and downe,
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thyselfe hath done thee wrong.
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Thou alwaies wailst in woe,
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thou travailest still in paine:
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Looke yonder where my true love goes,
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she will never come againe:
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Therefore be rulde by me,
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and let thy lover passe:
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If thou looke well thy chance may be,
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to find another lasse.
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