The dying teares of a true Lover forsaken, made upon
his Death-bed the houre before his Death.
To the tune of, Come live with me.
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THose gentle hearts which true love crave,
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Where true love can no harbour have,
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From shedding teares cannot refraine,
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But mourne with me that lov'd in vaine.
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Sore sick for love, sore sick in mind,
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Come gentle death my life unwind,
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For Cupids shaft and golden Bow,
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Now seek my joyes to overthrow.
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Upon my death-bed I have pend,
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This story of my dolefull end.
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Vain world behold, I dye, I dye,
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Here murthered by loves crueltie.
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O Sara Hill thou art the Wight,
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That turn'd my joy to sharp despight,
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Thou art the causer of my death,
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Farewell false Love, farewell fraile breath.
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Be warn'd young wantons by my fall,
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In love there is no truth at all,
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Though in love you live untrue,
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There be some Maids as false as you.
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Her beautie dazled so mine eyes,
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That in her brest my heart still lyes,
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I lov'd her, but she lov'd not me,
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Wherefore behold I dye, I dye.
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O cursed eyes, why did you gaze
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[?]n her faire and flattering face?
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[Wh]erefore did mine eyes enfold,
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[?]am'd of such unconstant mould?
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That from her eyes salt teares may shed,
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When for her sake she sees me dead.
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In outward shew we joyned hands,
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And vow'd to liv'd in wedlock Bands,
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But she unkind hath me dispis'd,
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And broke my heart so highly priz'd.
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O Lord, what griefe doe they sustaine,
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Which live despis'd, and love in vaine?
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But Lord, how well are they apaid,
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Who hap to chuse a constant Maid?
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There is no living wight that knowes,
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The pining paines and endlesse woes,
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That we forsaken Lovers bide,
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But such as have like torments tri'd:
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I needs must yeeld now life doth fade
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Deaths comming cannot be denay'd,
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Goe reach the Bible, pray to me,
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For that my soules true love shall be.
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Goe toule my Passing-Bell deare friends,
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For here a Lovers journey ends,
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But marke what fortune she shall have,
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When she hath closed me in grave.
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I doe not doubt but you shall see
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Her body pine in misery,
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And made a laughing stock to those,
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Who now her great unkindnesse knowes.
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You of the gentle Craft that be,
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Shew this kind favour unto me,
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That to the world this mournfull Song,
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Be chanted sweetly you among.
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And some of you I doe request,
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To beare me to my longest rest,
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And lay my Carkas in the ground,
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With ringing Bells melodious sound.
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To my deare Love then goe and say,
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Her change of mind cast me away,
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Bid her hard heart more constant prove,
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To him that next shall be her Love.
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With that he yeelded up his life,
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Where death gave end to further strife,
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Desiring God that sits in Heaven,
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His Lovers sins may be forgiven.
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Thus have you heard Hugh Hills good mind,
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Who never prov'd to Love unkind,
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But to his end continued true,
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Not changing old Love for a new.
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The Song of Sara Hill, to the Maids of Worcester.
To the same tune.
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COme young Lasses and listen well,
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Unto the Tale that I shall tell,
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For unto you I will unfold,
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A matter worthy to be told.
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There was a young-man lov'd me well,
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A Shoomaker, his name Hugh Hill,
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His heart with love did burne amaine,
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And I seem'd to love him againe.
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Then were we made sure together,
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But I unconstant as the weather,
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Did him forsake I was so nice,
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When we in Church were asked thrice.
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When that he saw I was unkind,
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And that I had a cruell mind,
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For love of me he left his life,
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Because I would not be his wife.
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I never car'd what he did say,
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But suffered him to pine away,
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And when he yeelded up his breath,
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I quickly had forgot his death.
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But in my bed upon a time,
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As many things were in my mind,
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There smiling to myselfe I said,
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I think that I shall dye a Maid.
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Then many a youth I thought upon,
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I lov'd and fancied many a one;
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I hated some, yet some reserv'd,
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To like or leave as they deserv'd.
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But in the middest of my choyce,
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I heard a lamentable voyce,
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With musick pleasant to the eare,
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But not to me as did appeare.
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For when I hearkned what 't might be,
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And what was cause of this melody,
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In at my window a voyce did cry,
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Hugh Hill is dead, fie Sara, fie.
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My conscience then accused me,
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Of my false heart and flattery,
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And evermore the voyce did cry,
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Goe pine thyselfe, repent and dye.
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Methought it was the voyce of Hugh,
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Of good Hugh Hill that was so true,
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That was so faithfull unto me,
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Yet I us'd him most wickedly.
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O there did he my faults expresse,
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And I the same must needs confesse,
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How I kill'd him with crueltie,
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For which I would, and cannot dye.
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And since that time my head is light,
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And all my body altered quite,
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My eyes are sunk into my head,
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Which makes me look like one that's dead.
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My face that was so fresh and fine,
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As cleare as is the Claret Wine,
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Is now transform'd to another hue,
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Both grim and loathsome to the view.
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My skin is withered my flesh is gone,
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And nothing left but skin and bone,
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And now I pine most dolefully,
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Wishing for death, but cannot dye.
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Therefore sweet Maids that Sutors have,
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Yeeld unto them that true love crave,
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O doe not cast a man away,
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Lest you yourselves goe to decay.
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If unto you a Young-man come,
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You are so fine, you'l nere have done,
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Untill your beautie fade away,
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You scorne most men you are so coy.
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Fie, fie, remember what you are,
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Doe not refuse whilst you are faire,
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Unto your true Loves be not coy,
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'Tis good to take them while you may.
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As you be coy so have I beene,
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But see the misery I live in,
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That (were it not for my soules health)
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I could be willing to kill myselfe.
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Therefore faire Maids amend in time,
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Lest that your woes be like to mine,
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And pray to God to cease my griefe,
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Or else to rid me of my life.
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