The Tormented Lovers.
Maidens Lament their present State,
And count they meet with rigid Fate;
But e're they will their minds explain,
They'l dye of their Tormenting Pain.
[T]o a pleasant Play-house Tune, called, Oh Love! if e're thoul 't ease a Heart.
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O Love if e're thou 'lt ease a Heart,
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that owns thy power Divine,
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That Bleeds with thy too cruel Dart;
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Yea, Burns with never ceasing smart;
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take pitty now on mine:
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Beneath the shades, I fainting lye;
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Ten Thousand times I wish to dye;
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Yet when I find cold Death draw nigh,
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I grive to loose my pleasing pain,
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and call my Wishes back again.
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Thus I sate musing all alone,
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in the shady myrtle Grove,
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As to my self, I made a moan,
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And every Eccho gave a Groan;
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came by the Man I Lov'd.
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Oh! How I strove, my Griefs to hide,
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I Panted, Sigh'd, and almost Dy'd,
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Yet did each tatling Eccho chide;
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for fear some Breath of moving Air,
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should to his Ears my Sorrows bear.
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And now you Powers, I dye to gain,
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but one poor parting Kiss;
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Yet will endure this deadly pain,
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E're I'le one Wish or Thought retain,
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that Honour thinks amiss.
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Thus are poor maids unkindly us'd,
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By Love and Nature, both abus'd,
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All kinds of Comforts are refus'd:
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for when we burn with secret Flame,
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we hide our griefs, or dye with shame.
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Such Torments we poor Maids endure;
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the like was never known,
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In any former Age 'tis sure,
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Nor can we hope to find a cure
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which moves us thus to moan:
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In secret places, where we lye,
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Each Minute ready for to dye;
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And all in vain, for help we cry.
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For comfortless we still remain,
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tortur'd with grief, and wreckt with pain.
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OUr Lives are comfortless to us,
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except we them injoy;
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Who cause us for to Languish thus:
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Who'd think the want of one poor Buss,
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could Maidens thus annoy;
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That night and day we should Lament,
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And wast away in discontent;
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Our Follies still we do repent:
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but 'tis in vain, for 'tis too late,
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for to lament our rigid fate.
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We must these Torments still endure,
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except Men prove more kind;
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Nought else to us can joy procure,
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Or bring that Bliss which will endure,
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as comfort to the mind.
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Languishing thoughts do us consume,
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And in the end will prove our doom;
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Yea, bring each Maiden to her Tomb;
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who can her Love no ways obtain,
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but dies, because she Loves in vain.
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What rigid fate is this we meet,
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each hour of every day,
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Whilst Men their days are blest and sweet,
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In e'ry part our Pulses beat,
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and we consume away.
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Where's Cupids court of equity,
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For Poets say, it so should be;
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But such a thing, I ne'r could see,
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which forces me for to complain,
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although I find 'tis all in vain.
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Then let us bid this World farewell,
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since we no joys can find.
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Elizium will this place excell;
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For this to us is present Hell,
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tormenting every mind;
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Who feels the smart of Cupids Bow,
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Is weary of her Life, I know
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She doth Torments undergo,
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and therefore will be free to part,
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from this sad world, to ease her Heart.
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Yet those who can their Loves injoy,
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thrice happy sure are they,
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Nothing on Earth can them annoy;
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What crosses can their Bliss destroy,
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who surfeit every day.
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Banquets of Kisses do they tast;
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While we for want consume and wast:
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Unto the Grave, then let us hast;
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for Death must be our chiefest friend,
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and put our Sorrows to an end.
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Tormented Heart, then brake and dye,
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since I'me so flighted here;
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In flames of fire, I scorch and fry,
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And so shall do perpetually,
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till I injoy my dear;
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Which if I never can obtain,
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To hope to Live, as all in vain;
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For I with Sorrow shall be Slain;
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yet freely will this Word depart,
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with a true Lovers Broken-Heart.
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