A Lamentable Ballad of the LADY's FALL.
To the Tune of, In Pescod time, etc.
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MArk well my heavy doleful tale,
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you loyal Lovers all,
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And heedfully bear in your breast,
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a gallant Lady's fall:
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Long was she woo'd e're she was won,
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to lead a wedded life,
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But folly wrought her overthrow,
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before she was a Wife.
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Too soon, alas, she gave consent
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to yield unto his will,
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Though he protested to be true,
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and faithful to her still:
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She felt her body alter'd quite,
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her bright hue waxed pale,
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Her fair red cheeks turn'd colour white,
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her strength began to fail.
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So that with many a sorrowful sigh,
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this beautious Maiden mild,
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With grievous heart perceiv'd herself
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to be conceiv'd with child:
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She kept it from her Father's sight,
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as close as close might be,
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And so put on her silken gown,
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none might her swelling see.
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Unto her Lover secretly
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she did herself bewray,
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And walking with him hand in hand,
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these words to him did say:
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Behold, said she, a Maid's distress,
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my Love, brought to thy bow,
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Behold I go with child by thee,
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but none thereof doth know.
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The little Babe springs in my womb,
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to hear the Father's voice,
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Let it not be a Bastard call'd,
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sith I made thee my choice:
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Come, come, my Love, perform thy vow,
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and wed me out of hand;
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O leave me not in this extream,
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in grief always to stand.
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Think on thy former promise made,
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thy vows and oaths each one:
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Remember with what bitter tears
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to me thou mad'st thy moan:
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Convey me to some secret place,
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and marry me with speed;
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Or with thy rapier end my life,
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e're further shame proceed.
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Alas, my dearest Love, quoth he,
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my greatest Joy on earth,
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Which way can I convey thee hence,
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without a sudden death?
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Thy Friends they be of high degree,
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and I of mean estate,
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Full hard it is to get forth
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out of thy Father's gate.
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Dread not thyself, to save my fame,
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and if thou taken be,
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Myself will step between the swords,
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and take the harm on me;
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So shall I 'scape dishonour quite,
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if so I should be slain;
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What could they say, but that true love
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did work a Lady's bane.
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And fear not any further harm,
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myself will so devise,
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That I will go away with thee,
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unseen of mortal eyes:
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Disguised like some pritty Page,
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I'll meet thee in the dark,
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And all alone I'll come to thee,
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hard by my Father's park.
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And there, quoth he, I'll meet,
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if God do lend me life;
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And this day month without all fail,
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I will make thee my Wife:
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Then with a sweet and loving kiss,
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they parted presently,
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And at their parting brinish tears
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stood in each others eye.
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At length the wished day was come,
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whereby this lovely Maid,
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With lovely eyes, and strange attire,
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for her true Lover staid:
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When any Person she espy'd,
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come riding o're the plain,
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She thought it was her own true Love,
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but all her hopes were vain.
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Then did she weep, and sore bewail
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her most unhappy state,
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Then did she speak these woful words,
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when succourless she sat:
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O false, forsworn and faithless Wretch,
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disloyal to thy Love;
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Hast thou forgot thy promis'd made,
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and wilt thou perjur'd prove?
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And hast thou now forsaken me
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in this my great distress,
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To end my days in open shame,
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which thou migh'ct well redress:
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Wo worth the time I did believe,
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that flattering tongue of thine,
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would God that I had never seen,
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the tears of thy false eyne,
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And thus with many a sorrowful sigh,
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homewards she went again,
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No rest came in her watry eyes,
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she felt such bitter pain.
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In travel strong she fell that night,
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with many a bitter throw,
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What woful pangs she felt that night,
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doth each good Woman know.
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She called up her Waiting-maid,
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that lay at her bed's feet,
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Who musing at her Mistress's woe,
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did strait begin to weep:
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Weep not, said she, but shut the door,
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and windows round about,
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Let none bewail my wretched case,
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but keep all Persons out.
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O Mistress, call your Mother dear;
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of women you have need,
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And of some skilful Midwife's help,
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the better you may speed.
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Call not my Mother for thy life,
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nor call no Women here,
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Tho' Midwife's help comes now too late,
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my death I do not fear.
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With that the Babe sprang in her womb,
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no Creature being nigh,
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And with a sigh that broke her heart,
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this gallant Dame did dye:
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This living little Infant young,
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the Mother being dead,
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Resign'd his new-received breath,
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to him that had Him made.
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Next morning came her Lover true,
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affrighted at this news,
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And he for sorrow slew himself,
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whom each one did accuse:
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The Mother with the new-born Babe,
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were both laid in one grave,
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Their Parents overcome with woe,
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no joy of them could have.
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Take heed, you dainty Dam'sels all,
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of flattering words beware,
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And of the honour of your names,
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have you a special care:
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Too true, alas, this story is,
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as many one can tell;
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By others harms learn to be wise,
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and thou shalt do full well.
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