The Lamentable Song of the Lord WIGMORE, Governour of Warwick Castle,
And the fair Maid of Dunsmore, as a warning to all Maids to have a care,
how they yield to the wanton Delight of young Gallants.
To the Tune: Diana.
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IN Warkshire there stands a down,
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And Dunsmore-heath it hath to name
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And joyning to a Country town,
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Made famous by a Maidenr name.
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Fair Isabel she named was,
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A Shepherd's daughter as some say,
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To Wigmores ears her fame did pass,
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As he in Warwick Castle lay,
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Poor love-sick Lord immediately,
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Upon her fame set his delight,
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And thought much pleasure sure did lye,
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possessing of so fair a Wight:
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Therefore to Dunsmore did repair,
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To recreate his sickly mind,
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Where in a summer's evening fair,
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His chance was Isabel to find
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She sat amidst a meadow green,
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Most richly spread with smelling flow'rs
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And by a River she was seen,
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to spend away some evening hours;
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There lay this Maiden all alone,
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Washing her feet in secret wise;
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Which Virgin fair to look upon.
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did much delight his loving eyes.
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She thinking not to be espy'd,
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And laid from her, her Country tire,
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The tresses of her hair unty'd,
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Hung glistering like the golden wire,
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And as the flakes of winter snow,
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That lye unmelted on the plains,
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So white her body was in show,
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Like silver springs did run her veins
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He ravisht with this pleasant sight,
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Stood as a Man amazed still,
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Suffering his eyes to take delight.
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that never thought they had their fill
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She blinded their affections so,
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That reasons rules were laid away,
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And love the coals of lust did blow.
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Which to a fire flamed high,
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And tho' he knew the sin was great,
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It burned so within his breast,
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With such a vehement scorching heat.
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That none but she could lend him rest
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Lord Wigmore being thus drown'd in lust
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By liking of this dainty Dame,
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He call'd a Servant of great trust.
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Inquiring straight what was her name,
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She is quoth he, no married Wife,
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But a Shepherd's daughter as you see,
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And with her Father leads her life,
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Whose dwellings by these pastures be,
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Her name is Isabel the fair,
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Then stay quoth he, and speak no more
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But to my Castle straight her bear,
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Her sight hath wound me full sore,
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Thus to Lord Wigmore she was brougt,
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who with delight is fancies fix,
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And thro' his suit such means he wrougt
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That he entic'd her to his bed,
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This being done in content,
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She did return from whence she came,
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And every day she did invent,
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To cover her received shame,
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But e're three months were fully past,
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Her crime committed plain appears,
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Unto Lord Wigmore then in haste,
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She long complain'd with weeping tears
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Lord Wigmore thus I have defil[']d,
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And spotted my pure Virgin's bed,
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Behold I am conceiv'd with child,
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To which vile folly you me led,
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For now this deed that I have wrought,
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Throughout the Country well is known
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And to my woful Parents brought,
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Who now for me do make great moan,
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How shall I look them in the face,
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When they my shameless self shall see?
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O curse Eve I feel thy case,
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When thou hadst tasted on the Tree,
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Thou hidst thyself and so must I,
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But God thy trespass quickly found,
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No dark may hide me from God's eye.
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But leave my shame still to abound
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Wide open are mine eyes to look,
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Upon my sad and heavy sin,
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And quite unclapsed in the book.
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Were my Accounts are written in,
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This sin of mine deserveth death,
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But judge, Lord Wigmore I am she,
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For I have trod a Strumpet's path.
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And for the same I needs must dye,
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Bespotted with reproachful shame,
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To ages following shall I be,
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And in records be writ my blame,
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Lord Wigmore, this is long of thee,
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Lord Wigmore prostrate at thy feet,
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I crave my just deserved doom,
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That death may cut off from the root.
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This body, blossom, brench, and bloom,
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Let modesty accurse this crime,
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Let love, and law. and nature speak,
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Was ever any Wretch yet seen.
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that in one instant all did break?
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Then Wigmore justice on me shew,
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For thus consenting to the act,
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Give me my death for that is due.
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To such as sin in such a fact,
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O that the womb had been my grave,
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Or I had perish'd in my birth,
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O that same day may darkness have.
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Wherein I first drew vital breath,
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Let God reguard it not at all,
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Let not the Sun upon it shine,
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Let misty darkness on it fall
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For to make know this sin of mine,
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The night wherein I was conceiv'd,
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Let be accurst with mournful cries,
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Let twinkling stars from sky be reav'd,
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And clouds of darkness thereon rise,
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Because they shut not up their powers,
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That gave the passage to my life,
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Come sorrow, finish up my hours.
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And let my time here end with grief
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And having made this woful moan,
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A knife she snatched from her side,
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There Lucretias part was righsly shown.
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For with the same fair Isabel dyd.
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Whereat Lord Wigmore grieved sore,
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A heart repenting his amiss,
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And after would attempt no more,
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To crop the flower of Maiden's bliss:
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But lived long in woful wise,
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Till death did finish up his days,
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And now in Isabels grave he lyes.
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till Judgment comes them both to rise.
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