The Wandering SHEPHERDESS
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YOU that do know what to true love belong.
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I'll tell you a story that lately was done:
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At Oxford a merchant's fair daughter did dwell,
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Who for wit and beauty did others excel.
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A noble young 'squire that lived hard by,
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Upon this young lady did soon cast an eye;
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And for to court her he thus did begin:
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Thou fairest of creatures that ever was seen.
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Do not be so cruel but yield unto me,
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For without your love there's no comfort for me.
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And now give consent for to be my bride,
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Or else I am ruin'd forever, he cry'd.
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The lady with innoeent smiles did reply,
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'Tis pity so god-like a creature should die,
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When 'tis in my power your life to save,
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So now [I] grant the this that you crave.
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With eager embraces he flew to her arms,
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And said, Thou hast ten thousand charms,
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Which invite great monarch's to fall at your feet;
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But I've got the prize, and my joys I'll complete.
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First ask my fathers consent she did say,
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For I must ever his pleasure obey:
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Her honoured parents I mean to please,
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For fear the Heavens be with us displeas'd.
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Then strait to her father the '[s]quire did go,
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And the whole matter he gave him to know.
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Her father was pleased he should be his son,
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And said, [i]f she loves him it soon shall be done.
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All things were agreed on, the time was set.
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And now as soon as this couple was met,
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This perjured villain the innocent fair
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He with false delusions began to ensnare.
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With modesty she unto him did say,
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Sir, do not my honour thus strive to betray.
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This is not true love, but lust you do mean.
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Better had it been if I ne'er had you seen.
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It will not be long e'er I shall be your bride;
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Then seek not my ruin, she to him reply'd.
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O talk not of ruin, thou pride of my life,
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May heaven forsake me if thou'rt not my wife.
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With many persuasions his will he obtain'd,
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And then her bright person, he soon disdain'd;
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For strait up to London this villain did come,
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Leaving his jewel in sorrow to mourn.
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Her parents wonder'd the 'squire ne'er came,
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Asking their daughter the cause ot the same.
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She said, Honour'd father, the cause I don't know,
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But men they are fiekle, and so let him go[.]
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Tho' she to her parents did not seem surpriz'd,
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When she was alone, the tears from her eyes
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Like fountains would run; crying, Worst of men,
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For your sake I will trust no man again.
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But I will wander thro' vallies and groves,
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Be witness, Heaven, how false is my love!
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And still I must love him do all that I can.
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I must be a slave unto this purjur'd man.
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Rich jewels and treasure she did provide,
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Saying, now I will wander whatever betide;
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And if my troubled heart does find any rest,
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To live in a cottage I'd think myself blest.
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So then from her parents away she did go
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Poor soul! with a heart full of sorrow and woe,
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Thro' lonesome fields and woods she did hie,
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Then she a small cottage at length did espy.
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It was a poor shepherd that in it did dwell,
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Seeing the lady set down in his cell,
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He welcom'd her in, and said, Sweet lady fair,
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Pray what cruel fortune has driven you here?
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Then into his cottage the lady did go,
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His wife unto her great kindness did shew.
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When she with the shepherd some time had been,
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Her riches and jewels she gave unto them.
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And said, O this matter let no one know;
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And to keep the sheep in the vallies I'll go.
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The Wandering Shepherdess you can me call.
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Unfortunate love is the cause of my fall.
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A rich suit of green embroider'd ware,
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With a garland of flowers had this lady fair,
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To shade of the Sun from her beauty clear,
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To her sheep in the vallies she did repair.
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When two long years were finish'd and gone,
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The 'squire to Oxford strait did return.
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Her parents, accus'd him of wronging their chiid.
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He said, She was fickle and false as the wind.
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But now, Said her father, I fear she is dead,
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So we can add nothing to what we have said.
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But sure she was honest and virtuous to all,
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And you are the man that caused her fall.
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Now we will leave her parents to mourn,
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And unto the Shepherdess let us return.
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Who was the talk of folks far and near.
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At length her lover the same came to hear.
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He must see this beauty whatever betide.
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Then he got his coach, and away he did ride;
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And just as bright Phoebus was going down,
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He came to the valley where she lay alone.
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The lambs were sporting an innocent sort,
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And she was pleased with their harmless sport.
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Her fine silver hair sweet breezes did wave,
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On a bank of sweet lillies she carelessly laid.
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O Gods? said the squire, sure she's divine,
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But if she is mortal, oh? let her be mine.
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He little thought it was his love so true,
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Men so much admire each Beauty they view.
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The charming Shepherdess turning her eyes,
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Soon did know him to her great surprize.
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But yet who she was he did not know,
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At length to her cottage she homeward did go.
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He followed her home, saying, Sweet fair,
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Pity a lover that is in despair;
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For by the glance of your charming eyes.
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My love-sick heart is fill'd with surprize.
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Sir, you seem a person of high degree,
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And I a poor shepherdess now as you see,
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Talk not, sweet creature, thy charms are so sweet,
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Will cause the great monarch to fall at thy feet.
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The shepherdess then invited him in,
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But now afresh her sorrows do begin:
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The garland of flowers being took from her head,
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He knew 'twas his love he thought had been dead
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His love-sick heat he soon did abate,
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But he unto her no notice did take:
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Quoth he to himself, since it is thee,
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I 'ere to-morrow your butcher will be.
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They parted that night the next morning to mee[t]
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In the sweet pasture where she kept the sheep,
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And the next morning just as the sun rose,
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This perjured wretch to the sheperdess goes.
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No one being there, he unto her did say,
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Come madam, and strip off that gaudy array;
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As I'm come so far an harlot to see,
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I am resolved your butcher to be.
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Can'st thou be so cruel to him she did say
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My innocent life thus to take away?
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What harm my dear jewel, have I done to thee,
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The crime it was yours in deluding of me.
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Vile strumpet, dost thou presume for to prate,
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Come yield to my sword, for no longer I'll wait:
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She to him for mercy did bitterly cry,
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But he hard-hearted wretch had no mercy.
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But finding with him she could not prevail,
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O heaven! said she, since all flesh is frail,
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Pardon my crimes, which are many she cries,
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Now traitor I'm ready for your sacrifice.
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She open'd her breast far whiter than snow,
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He pierced her heart whilst the crimson did flow;
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Her body he threw in a river near,
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And thus dy'd the beauty of fair Oxfordshire.
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Then home he returned, and when he came ther
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He wandered about like a man in despair;
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No rest night nor day he ever cou'd find,
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The sweet shepherdess ran so in his mind.
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Within four days he took to his bed,
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The doctor gave him over, it is said,
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When he found his dying hour was come,
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He sent for her father, and told what was done.
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Then in a sad sort he yielded up his breath,
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Her father said I'm the unhappiest man on earth.
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Then he sought the body of his daughter dear,
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Who in sumptuous manner was bury'd, we hear
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Within a little time her father did die,
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Now let each take warning by this tragedy;
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And maidens beware of mens flattering tongue
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For if you consent you are surely undone.
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