A pleasant new Ballad
of two Lovers.
To a pleasant new Tune.
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COmplaine my Lute complaine on him
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that stayes so long away,
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He promis'd to be here ere this,
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but still unkind doth stay.
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But now the Proverbe true I finde,
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once out of sight, then out of minde:
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Hey hoe my heart is full of woe.
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Peace lyer peace, it is not so,
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he will by and by be here:
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But every one that is in Love,
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thinkes every houre a yeere.
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Harke, harke, me thinks I heare one knocke
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run quickly then and turne the locke,
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Then farrwell all my care and woe.
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Come gallant now, come loyterer,
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for I must chide with thee:
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But yet I will forgive thee once,
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come sit thee downe by mee,
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Faire Lady rest your selfe content,
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I will indure your punishment,
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And then we shall be friends againe.
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For every' houre that I have stayd,
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so long from thee away,
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A thousand kisses will I give,
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receive them ready pay,
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And if we chance to count amisse
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againe wee'le reckon them every kisse,
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For he is blest that's punisht so.
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And if those those thousand kisses then,
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we chance to count aright
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We shall not need to count againe
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till we in bed doe light:
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And then be sure that thou shalt have,
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thy reckoning just as thou shalt crave.
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So shall we still agree as one.
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And thus they spent the silent night,
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in sweet delightfull sport,
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Till Phoebus with his beames so bright,
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from out the fiery port
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Did blush to see the sweet content,
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in sable night so vainely spent,
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Betwixt these Lovers two.
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And then this Gallant did perswade,
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that he might now be gone:
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Sweet-heart, quoth he, I am afraid,
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that I have stayd too long.
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And wilt thou then be gone, quoth she,
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and will no longer stay with me:
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Then welcome all my care and woe.
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And then she tooke her lute in hand,
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and thus began to play,
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Her heart was faint she could not stand,
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but on her bed shee lay,
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And art thou gone my love, quoth she,
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complaine my Lute, complaine with me
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Untill that he doth come againe.
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