The Distressed VIRGIN; Or,
The False young-man, and the Constant Maid,
The Qualities of them both displaid.
To an Excellant New Tune.
|
A Thousand times my love commend,
|
to him that hath my heart in hold,
|
I took him for my dearest friend,
|
his love I more esteemed then gold:
|
When first my eyes did see his face,
|
and that my ears did hear his voice,
|
His love I freely did imbrace
|
my heart told me he was my choice.
|
O had he still continued true,
|
and in perfection permanent,
|
Had he performed what was due,
|
then had I found true hearts content:
|
But he regardless of his vow,
|
which he to me did make before,
|
Hath thus in sorrow left me now,
|
my former follies to deplore
|
Would I had never seen those eyes,
|
that like atractive Adamants,
|
Did my poor heart with love surprize,
|
the power of love some inchants:
|
I have no power to leave his love,
|
though with stern hate he me pursue,
|
To him I will most constant prove,
|
though he be faithless and untrue.
|
I put my finger in the bush,
|
thinking the sweetest Rose to find,
|
I prickt my finger to the bone,
|
but yet I left the Rose behind:
|
If Roses be such prickling flowers
|
they must be gathered while they be green,
|
And she that loves an unkind love,
|
alas she rows against the stream.
|
O would he but conceive aright,
|
the grief that I for him sustain,
|
He could not chuse but change his spight,
|
to faithful love and leave disdain:
|
I love to have him still in place,
|
his too much absence makes me mourn
|
Yet he disvains to see my face,
|
and holds my company in scorn.
|
It grieves my heart full sore to think,
|
that he whom I so dearly love,
|
Should thus with me refuse drink,
|
yet can my passions ne'r remove,
|
Though he I know could wish my Death,
|
so great is his inveterate hate,
|
Yet could I sooner lose my breath,
|
then see him wrong'd in name or state.
|
Ill hap had I to come in place,
|
where first I saw his temping look,
|
As soon as I beheld his face,
|
I Cupid's Prisoner straight was took:
|
And never since that fatal hour,
|
have I enjoy'd a minutes rest,
|
The thought of him is of such power,
|
it never can forsake my breast.
|
Then was I struck with Cupid's dart,
|
then was my fancy captivated,
|
Then did I vow that still my heart,
|
should rest with him though he me hated:
|
Then did he make a show of love,
|
which did much more my heart inflame,
|
But now he doth perfidious prove,
|
and gives me cause his love to blame.
|
NAy more, he made a vow to me,
|
that I should be his wedded Wife,
|
And he forsakes me now I see,
|
which makes me weary of my life,
|
I little thought what now I find,
|
that young-men could dissemble so,
|
Sure he is the falsest of his kind,
|
ill hap had I to prove him so.
|
Could any man be so hard-hearted,
|
to leave a harmless Maid in grief,
|
From me all comfort clean is parted,
|
unless his favour grant relief?
|
He is the man that bred my pain
|
he is the man whose love alone,
|
Must be the means to cure my pain;
|
or else my life will soon be gone.
|
O faithless wretch consider well,
|
that Heaven abhorreth perjury,
|
Great torments are prepar'd in hell,
|
for them that thus will swear and lye:
|
O hadst thou never made a show,
|
of love, thou hast excus'd thy blame,
|
But thy false heart full well doth know,
|
with oaths thy perjur'd tongue did frame.
|
That obstacle that hinders me,
|
is that which I suspect full sore,
|
His fruit is on some other tree,
|
and he is seduced by some whore:
|
Or else he hath some other Lass,
|
perhaps like me a harmless Maid,
|
Whom he may bring to such a pass,
|
as I am brought by Cupids aid.
|
O heavens forbid that anyone,
|
that bears an honest loving mind,
|
Should thus have cause to grieve & mourn,
|
at such a knave that shames his kind:
|
But why should I as passions move,
|
with bitter words upon him rail,
|
Whom I am ever bound to love,
|
until my vital spirits fail.
|
Sweet love forget my lavish tongue,
|
if I offend in any sort,
|
To recompence thee for the wrong,
|
i'le always give thee good report
|
Although to me thou art unkind,
|
who never gave thee any cause,
|
Yet I still resolved in my mind,
|
never to break Cupids Laws.
|
And if I never be thy Wife,
|
which is the thing I justly claim.
|
I vow to lead a single life,
|
and never think on lovers game:
|
But why speak I of life, when death,
|
doth every minute claim his due,
|
I cannot long detain my breath,
|
having a lover so untrue.
|
Let all true Lovers judge aright,
|
in what a case poor soul am I,
|
Come gentle death and work thy spight,
|
for now I am prepar'd to dye:
|
O heavens forgive my love this wrong,
|
done unto me a Maiden pure,
|
Who for his sake must dye e're long,
|
for long my life cannot endure
|
|
|
|
|
|