The Love-Sick Maid: Or, Cordelias lamentation for the
absence of her Gerhard.
To a Pleasant New Tune.
|
BE gone
|
Thou fatal fiery feavor, now be gone,
|
let Love alone,
|
Let his Etherial flames posees my breast,
|
His fires,
|
From thy consuming heat no aid requires,
|
for swift desires,
|
Transports my passion to a throne of rest;
|
Where I ,
|
Who in the pride of health, did
|
never feel such warmth to move;
|
By sickness tam'd am so inflam'd,
|
I know no joys but love.
|
And he
|
That trifled many tedious hours
|
away, my love to try,
|
In little space had gain'd the grace,
|
to have more power than I.
|
Depart
|
Thou scorching fury, quick from me depart,
|
think not my heart,
|
To thy dull flame shall be a sacrifice;
|
A Maid
|
Dread Cupid now is on thy Altar laid,
|
by thee betray'd,
|
A Rich oblation to restore thine eyes:
|
But yet
|
My fair acknowledgement will
|
prove thou hast no c[r]aft,
|
To bend thy Bow against thy foe,
|
shat aim'd to catch the shait:
|
For if
|
That at my breast thy arrows
|
thou all at once let flie,
|
She that receives a thousand sh[eaves],
|
can do no more but dye.
|
No more
|
You learn'd physitians, tire your brains no more
|
pray give me o're,
|
Mine is a cure, in Physick never read;
|
Although
|
You skilful Doctors all the world doth know,
|
pray let me go.
|
You may as well make practice on the Dead.
|
But if
|
My Gerrard dain to view me
|
with the glory of his looks,
|
I make no doubt to live without,
|
Physitians and their books.
|
'Tis he
|
That with his balmed Kisses
|
can restore my latest breath;
|
That bliss is this, to gain a Kiss
|
can save a maid from death?
|
To you
|
That tell me of another world, I bow,
|
and will allow
|
Your Sacred Precepts, if you'll grant me this,
|
That he
|
Whom I esteem of next the Deity,
|
may go with me,
|
Without whose presence there can be no bliss,
|
Go teach
|
You tenets of eternity,
|
to those that aged be,
|
And not perswade a lovesick maid,
|
there's any heaven but he.
|
But stay
|
Methinks an icy slumber
|
hath possest my fency brain;
|
Pray bid him dye if you see I
|
shall never wake again.
|
|
|
|
|
The Young-Mans Answer: Or, his Dying Breath,
Lamenting for his fair Cordelias Death.
To a Delightful New Tune.
|
Come on
|
thou fatal messenger from her that's gone
|
lest I alone
|
Within that quenchless flame forever fry;
|
The Lake
|
Of love being kindled, wherein none can take
|
rest, but wake,
|
Where slumber hath no power to close the eye;
|
Whilst I
|
That by my fair Cordelia
|
desire to take a sleep,
|
With lids wide spread upon my bed
|
am forc'd a watch to keep:
|
And she
|
That waited many tedious hours,
|
my constancy to try,
|
Is now at rest, while I opprest,
|
fain would but cannot dye.
|
Dispatch
|
Thou scorching fury, quickly now dispatch,
|
by Death I watch.
|
To be releast from this tormenting flame;
|
The Dart
|
Sent from dread Cupid, sticks fast in my heart,
|
I wanting art,
|
Had not the power for to resist the same
|
Though she
|
Who by her late acknowledgment,
|
profest thou hadst no craft,
|
Yet from thy bow thou madst her know
|
what power lay in the shaft:
|
Yut then
|
Thou sent'st another arrow
|
which me of hopes bereft,
|
Most like a foe to wound me so,
|
for whom no cure is left.
|
Wherefore
|
Did you Physicians gibe my mistress o're?
|
had you no more
|
Experience, but what you in books have read?
|
Or why
|
(You learned Doctors) did you cease to try
|
your skills, when I
|
Might have reviv'd her if she'd not been dead?
|
And yet
|
Suppose that I in Person
|
had present been to view her;
|
Is there such grace in any face
|
to work so great a cure?
|
But now
|
I'm come too late to kiss her,
|
which were it not in vain,
|
After her death Id spend my breath
|
to fetch her back again
|
Unto
|
The fair Elizium thither will I go,
|
whereas I know
|
She is amongst those sacred one prefer'd,
|
Then I
|
Shall be admitted for to come so nigh,
|
pardon i'll cry
|
For my long absence, wherein I have err'd:
|
And since
|
By her I was esteem'd
|
so much on earth being here,
|
Hence for her sake no rest I'll take,
|
till I have found her there.
|
No more,
|
But only I desire
|
to hear my passing bell;
|
That Virgins may lament the day
|
of Gerhards last farewel.
|
|
|
|
|