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A pleasant new Ditty, called,
I love a lasse since yesterday,
And yet I cannot get her."

To the tune of — The Mother beguiled the Daughter.

[From a black letter copy, printed for Coules.]

OFT have I heard of many men,
     Whom love hath sore tormented,
With grief of heart and bitter smart,
     And minds much discontented,
Such love to me shall never be distasteful, grievous, bitter.
     I have loved a lass since yesterday,
And yet I cannot get her.
     But let her choose, if she refuse,
And go to take another,
     I will not grieve, but still will be
The merry careless lover.

I will no foolish lover be
     To waste my means upon her,
But if she do prove firm to me,
     In heart I will her honour,
And if she scorn my part to take
     I know a way to fit her;
My heart with grief shall never ache,
     What man soever get her.
Then let her choose if she refuse,
     And go to take another.
I will not grieve but still will be
The merry careless lover.

And yet I know not what to think,
     She makes a show she loves me,
What need I fear from me she'll shrink,
     Some foolish passion moves me,
Sometimes to hope, sometimes to fear
     It hangs upon a twitter;
Whether she hates or loves me dear,
     To lose her or to get her.
But let her choose, if she refuse, &c.

Some women they are firm in love,
     And some they are uncertain,
Scarce one in twenty loyal prove,
     Yet if it were my fortune,
To get this lass unto my wife,
     I know not one more fitter,
In lawful love to lead our lives,
     If 't were my hap to get her,
But let her choose, &c.

I am a man indifferent,
     Whether she will or will not,
My sweet-heart be, for love to me,
     If she does not, it skills not,
If she fancy me, I'll. constant be,
     This lass she is a knitter,
And I have loved her since yesterday,
     But yet I cannot get her.
But let her choose, if she refuse,
     And go to take another,
I'll never grieve but still will be,
     The merry careless lover.



This lass she doth in Yorkshire live,
     There in a town called Forset,
Her mind to labour she doth give,
     She can knit silk or worsted,
I know not well what I should say,
     In speech she's sometimes bitter,
And I have her lov'd since yesterday,
     And yet I cannot get her.
But let her choose if she refuse,
     And go to take another,
I'll never grieve, but still will be
     The merry careless lover.

Sometimes she will upon me smile,
     And sometimes she is sullen,
As she doth sit, and stockings knit
     Of jarsy and of woollen,
She gets the praise above the rest
     To be a curious knitter,
She loves me as she cloth profess,
     And yet I cannot get her.
But let her choose, &c.

Her portion is not very much,
     But for the same what care
So she with me will but keep touch,
     And not in mind will vary;
For pelf I do not pass a straw,
     Her beauty likes me better,
For I have lov'd her since yesterday,
     And yet I cannot get her.
But let her choose, &c.

I will bethink me what is best.
     A way for to be taken,
Her love to gain, and her obtain,
     I would not be forsaken;
Nor would I have her say me nay,
     Nor give me speeches bitter,
For I have lov'd her since yesterday,
     And yet I cannot get her.
But let her choose, &c.

I have her father's free consent,
     That she with me should marry,
Her mother likewise is content,
     And grieves that she should carry 
So proud a mind, or be unkind
     To me in speeches bitter;
For I hear to her a loving mind,
     And yet I cannot get her,
But let her choose, &c.

With her I at a wedding was,
     Where we did dance together,
She is a curious handsome lass,
     And yet like wind and weather
Her mind doth change, she's kind, she's strange,
     Mild, gentle, cruel, bitter,
Yet howsoere I love her dear,
     And yet I cannot get her.
But let her choose, &c.

Yet will I hope upon the best,
     All foolish fears excluding,
And at her faithful service rest.
     Thus here in brief concluding,
With some dear friend to her I'll send
     A kind and loving letter,
And hope in time her love to gain,
     And for my wife to get her.
And then I'll sing with merry cheer
     This ditty and no other,
Whilst breath does last, and life be past,
     I'll be a faithful lover.

By Robert Guy.




A Disswasion from Jealousie."

To the tune of — All you that will woo a Wench.

You men who are married carne hearken to me,
     I'll teach you a lesson if wise you will be,
Then take my advice that's intended for good,
     And so 'tis if it be but well understood:
'Twill cause you to shun all contention and spleen,
     That daily betwixt man and woman are seen,
I speak against jealousy, that monster fierce,
     And wish I could conquer the fiend with my verse,
O be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
     For jealousy makes many good women bad.

If thou have a good wife then I thee advise,
     To cherish her well, for she is a rare prize, 
If she, be indifferent between good and bad,
     Good means to reform her may easily be had:
If she be so evil that there are few worse,
     Imagine thy sins have deserved that curse,
Then bear with true patience thy cross as 't is fit,
     And thou to a blessing thereby may'st turn it,
But be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
     For jealousy makes many good women bad.

Between these three wives, the good, bad, and the mean.
     I ground the whole argument of this my theme,
For in them a man's human bliss or his woe
     Doth chiefly consist as experience doth show,
Thus is it not counsel that's worthy regard,
     Which teaches to soften a thing that is hard,
And what I intend is in every man's will
     To turn to a virtue what seemeth most ill:
Then be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
     For jealousy makes many good women bad:

A wife that is good, being beautiful, may
     Perhaps raise suspicion, that she'll go astray,
O note the fond humours that most men possess,
     They're neither content with the more nor the less,
For if she be homely, then her will he Slight,
     Such man neither fair nor foul can delight,
If once he be jealous the other he scorns,
     There's no greater plague than imagin'd horns.
Then be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
     For jealousy makes many good women bad.

A wife that's indifferent between good and ill,
     Is she that in houswifery shews her good will,
Yet sometimes her voice she too much elevates,
     Is that the occasion for which he her hates?
A sovereign remedy for this disease
     Is to hold thy tongue, let her say what she please;
Judge, is not this better than to fight and scratch,
     For silence will soonest a shrew overmatch.
However I pray thee shun jealousy, lad,
     For jealousy makes many good women bad.

A wife that's all bad, if thy luck be to have,
     Seek not to reclaim her by making her slave,
If she be as bad as ever trod on ground,
     Not fighting or jealousy will heal thy wound:
For mark when a river is stopt in its course,
     It o'erflows the banks, then the danger is worse,
Thy own example and patience withall,
     May her from her vices much rather recall.
Then be not thou jealous, I prithee, dear lad,
     For jealousy makes many good women bad.


A wife that is virtuous in every respect,
     Who doth her vow'd duty at no time neglect,
She's not free from censure, for fools their bolts shoot.
     As oft at the head as they do at the foot:
A kiss or a smile, or a jest or a dance,
     Familiar discourse, or an amorous glance.
All these, as her witness, Envy doth bring,
     The credit of innocent women to sting. 
But be not thou jealous, I pray thee, dear lad,
     For jealousy makes many good women bad.

A wife's that's indifferent if curb'd overmuch,
     Will grow worse and worse, for their nature is such.
The more thou with rigor doth seek her to mend,
     The more they'll persist, and grow desperate in th' end.
And thus from indifferency wanting good means,
     Some well meaning women turn impudent queans.
If goodness, by beating them, thou seek'st to infuse,
     For breaking her flesh thou all goodness dost bruise.

A wife at the worst (as I told you before)
     A drunkard, a swearer, a scold, thief, or whore,
By gentle persuasions reclaimed may be,
Myself by experience but lately did see;
A man that with jealousy plagued hath been,
     When he the last labour and trouble had seen,
He cast off his care and refer'd all to 's wife,
     Who soon left her vices and led a new life.

I also have known a wife, handsome and neat,
     Of whom her fond husband did take a conceit,
That other men lov'd her because she was fair,
     Though on the contrary to him she did swear,
He watcht her, he eyed her, he noted her ways,
     And once he in 's drink a scandal would raise,
This usage irregular set her on fire,
     And so from thenceforward she prov'd him no liar.

Consider each circumstance with good regard,
     How oft causeless jealousy wins due reward,
And likewise I wish thee to bear in thy breast,
     That patience and quietness still is the best,
For if she be naught she'll grow worse with restraint,
     But patience may make of a harlot a saint,
If fair means prevail not thou'll ne'er do it by foul,
     For meekness (if any thing) must win a soul.

Now, lastly, to bath men and women I speak,
     From this foolish fancy their humours to break;
Be loving and tractable each unto other,
     And what is amiss let affection still smother.
So shall man and wife in sympathy sweet,
     At board and at bed (as they ought to do) meet,
All fighting, and scratching, and scolding shall cease,
     Where jealousy's harbour'd there can be no peace.
Then be not thou jealous, I pray thee, dear lad,
     For jealousy makes many good women bad.


"A merry jest of John Tomson, and Jackaman his wife,
Whose jealousie was justly the cause of all their strife."

To the tune of Pegge  of Ramsay.

WHEN I was a bachelor,
     I liv'd a merry life,
But now I am a married man,
     And troubled with a wife,
I cannot do as I have done,
     Because I live in fear;
If I go but to Islington
     My wife is watching there.
Give me my yellow hose again,
     Give me my yellow hose,
For now my wife she watcheth me,
     See yonder where she goes. 

But when I was apprentice bound,
     And my indentures made,
In many faults I have been found.
     Yet never thus afraid;
For if I chance now by the way
     A woman for to kiss,
The rest are ready for to say,
     Thy wife shall know of this.
          Give me my yellow hose, &c.

Thus when I come in company,
     I pass my mirth in fear,
For one or other merrily
     Will say my wife is there;
And then my look doth make them laugh,
     To see my woeful case,
How I stand like John hold-my-staff,
     And dare not shew my face.
          Give me my yellow hose, &c.

Then comes a handsome woman in,
     And shakes me by the hand,
But how my wife she did begin,
     Now you shall understand;
Fair dame (quoth she) why dost thou so,
     He gave his hand to me,
And thou shalt know, before thou go,
     He is no man for thee.
          Give me, &c.

Good wife (quoth she) now do not scold,
     I will do so no more,
I thought I might have been so bold,
     I knowing him before.
With that my wife was almost mad,
     Yet many did intreat her,
And I, God knows, was very sad
     For fear she would have beat her.
          Give me my yellow hose, &c.

Thus marriage is an enterprise,
     Experience doth shew,
But scolding is an exercise,
     That married men do know;
For all this while there were no blows,
     Yet still their tongues were talking
And very fain would yellow hose
     Have had her fists a walking.
          Give me, &c.

In comes a neighbour of our town,
     An honest man, God wot,
And he must needs go sit him down,
     And call in for his pot.
And said to me, I am the man
     Which gave to you your wife,
And I will do the best I can
     To mend this wicked life.
Give me my yellow hose again,
     Give me my yellow hose,
For now my wife she watcheth me,
     See yonder where she goes.


I gave him thanks and bad him go,
     And so he did indeed,
And told 'my wife she was a shrew,
     But that was more than need.
Saith he, thou hast an honest man,
     And one that loves thee well,
Saith she, you are a fool, good Sir,
     It's more than you can tell.
          Give me my yellow hose, &c.

And yet in truth he loveth me,
     But many more beside,
And I may say, good Sir, to thee,
     That cannot I abide.
For though he loves me as his life,
     Yet now, Sir, wot you what,
They say he loves his neighbour's wife,
     I pray you how like you that?
          Give me, &c.

Saith he, I hope I never shall
     Seek fancy fond to follow,
For love is lawful unto all,
     Except it be too yellow.
Which lieth like the Jaundice so,
     In these our women's faces,
That watch their husbands where they go,
     And haunt them out in places.
          Give me my yellow hose, &c.

Now comes my neighbour's wife apace,
     To talk a word or two,
My wife then meets her face to face,
     And saith, Dame is it you,
That makes so much of my good man,
     As if he were your own,
Then clamp as closely as you can?
     I know it will be known.
          Give me, &c.

Now when I saw the woman gone,
     I call'd my wife aside,
And said, why art thou such a one,
     That thou canst not abide
A woman for to talk with me,
     This is a woeful case,
That I must keep no company,
     Except you be in place.
          Give me, &c.

This maketh bachelors to halt
     So long before they wed,
Because they hear that women now
     Will he their husband's head.
And seven long year I tarried
     For Jakaman my wife,
But now that I am married,
     I'm weary of my life.
          Give me, &c.

For yellow love is too too bad,
     Without all wit or policy,
And too much love hath made her mad,
     And fill'd her full of jealousy.
She thinks I am in love with those
     I speak to passing by:
That makes her wear the yellow hose
     I gave her for to dye.
          Give me, &c.

But now I see she is so hot,
     And lives so much at ease,
I will go get a soldier's coat,
     And sail beyond the seas:
To serve my captain where and when;
     Though it be to my pain,
Thus farewell, gentle Jakaman,
     Till we two meet again.
          Give me, &c.

Quoth she, good husband, do not deal
     Thus hardly now with me,
And of a truth I will reveal
     My cause of jealousy:
You know I always paid the score,
     You put me still in trust:
I saved twenty pound and more,
     Confess it needs I must.
          Give me, &c.

But now my saving of the same,
     For aught that I do know,
Made Jealousy to fire her frame
     To weave this web of woe;
And thus this foolish love of mine
     Was very fondly bent,
But now my gold and goods are this,
     Good husband be content.
          Give me, &c.

And thus to lead my life anew
     I fully now purpose,
That thou may'st change thy coat of blue,
     And I my yellow hose.
This being done, our country wives
     May warning take by me,
How they do live such jealous lives,
     As I have done with thee.
Give me my yellow hose again,
     Give me my yellow hose;
For now my wife she watcheth me,
     See yonder where she goes.


Countryman's Bill of Charges for his coming up to London, declared by a Whistle.

Tune — King Henry, &c.

DIOGENES that laugh'd to see
     A mare once eat a thistle,
Would surely smile and laugh the while,
     To hear me sing my whistle,
For now 'tis meant we must invent
     A silent way of ringing,
And so for fear least some should hear,
     Must whistle 'stead of singing.
With a hey down, with a how down
With a haw down, down, down derry,
     Since that we may
     Nor sing, nor say
We'll whistle and be merry.

A countryman to London came
     To view the famous city,
And here his charge did grow so large,
     It made me write this ditty,
For in a bill he set down still
     His charge from the beginning,
Which I did find, and now do mind,
     To whistle stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Imprimis, coming unto town,
     And at my inn alighting,
I almost spent a noble crown
     In potting and in piping:
Item, that the tapster there,
     My jugs half full did bring in,
I dare not say he was a K.
     But I'll whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Item, that I went abroad,
     And had my purse soon picked,
While I did stare on London ware,
     By a pick-purse I was fitted:
Item, that I met a wench,
     That put me down in drinking,
I dare not say what she made me pay,
     But I'll whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Item, that I met withall
     A very loving cousin,
Who needs would be of my country,
     And gave me half a dozen,
And at the last a pair of cards
     They cunningly did bring in,
I will not say what they made me pay,
     But I'll whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Item, that I daily went
     Unto my lawyer's chamber,
And he did say, I should win the day
     Without all fear or danger.
But then at last, for charge and cost
     He such a bill did bring in,
I will not say what he made me pay,
     But I'll whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Item, that I paid for there
     A bagpipe in a bottle,
Which did begin to hiss and sing
     When we did stir the stople.
Item, that one night I did lie
     In the Counter for my drinking,
I will not say what I paid next day,
     But I'll whistle instead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Item, that at last I came
     To take my horse again,
But my horse look't never worse,
     His belly did complain,
For he alas! for want of hay,
     Stood o'er the manger grinning,
Yet they made me pay for night and day,
     But I'll whistle instead of singing. 



Countryman's going down into the Country, declared by a Whistle, to the same tune. 

Thus having got from London once,
     He rid full heavy hearted,
For like an honest man, he had
     From all his money parted;
His cloak-bag full of papers was,
     Instead of money gingling,
I dare not boast what those papers cost,
     But I'll whistle 'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Imprimis, coming home, he found
     His good wife Joan a brewing,
And did not defer, but unto her
     His papers fell to shewing,
But when she saw, nothing but law,
     She fell to scold and flinging,
But all that day he kept away
     And whistled 'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Item, that he went to plough,
     Which whiles that he was driving,
Alas! says he, what fools are we,
     In law to fall a striving.
For now I mean to keep my teams,
     Which shall good profit bring in,
I must drive on, my money's gone,
     And whistle 'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Item, that his neighbours came
     To ask what news at London,
Alas, says he, more wiser be,
     For fear that you be undone.
Spend not at term what you do earn,
     Whilst that your wives are spinning,
Which makes me now to drive the plough,
     And whistle 'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

For be it known unto you all,
     That I my money spended,
Such fools as I will beggars die,
     Before their lives are ended;
Therefore beware, and have more care,
     When that your money is gingling,
Least when 'tis spent you do repent,
     And whistle 'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.

Yet one more item I will add,
     Since that my song is ended,
My item's this, that I would wish
     No man to be offended;
With all my items but to save
     His money when 'tis gingling,
Least when 'tis spent he do repent,
     And whistle 'stead of singing.
With a hey down, &c.


"How Robin Good-Fellow went in the shape of a Fidler to a wedding, and of the sport that he had there."

[From the second part of Robin Good-Fellow, commonly called Hob Goblin. 4to. 1628.]

To the tune of — Watton Townes end.

IT was a country lad,
That fashions strange would see,
And he came to a vaulting schoole,
Where tumblers use to be:
He lik't his sport so well,
That from it he'd not part
His doxey to him still did cry,
Come busse thine owne sweet heart.

They lik't his gold so well,
That they were both content,
That he that night with his sweet heart,
Should passe in merryment:
To bed they then, did goe,
Full well he knew his part,
Where he with words, and eke with deedes,
Did busse his owne sweet heart.

Long were they not in bed.
But one knockt at the dore,
And said, Up! rise, and let me in:
This vext both knave and whore;
He being sore perplext,
From bed did lightly start,
No longer then could he indure
To busse his owne sweet heart.

With tender steps he trod,
To see if he could spye
The man, that did him so molest,
Which he with heavy eye
Had soone beheld, and said,
Alas! my owne sweet heart
I now doe doubt if ere we busse,
It must be at a cart.

At last the bawd arose
And opened the dore,
And saw Discretion cloth'd in rug,
Whose office hates a whore:
He mounted up the stayres,
Being cunning in his arte,
With little search, at last he found
My youth and his sweet heart. 

He having wit at will,
Unto them both did say:
I will not heare them speak one word,
Watch-men with them away;
And cause they lov'd so well,
'Tis pitty they should part:
Away with them to new bride-well,
There busse your owne sweet heart. 

His will it was fulfil'd,
And there they had the law;
And whilst that they did nimbly spin.
The hempe he needs must taw:
He ground, he thump't, he grew
So cunning in his arte,
He learnt the trade of beating hempe,
By bussing his sweet heart.

But yet he still would say,
If I could get release,
To see strange fashions I'le give o're,
And henceforth live in peace,
The towne where I was bred,
And thinke by my desert
To come no more into this place,
For bussing my sweet heart.


"True Relation of one Susan Higges, dwelling in Risborow, a towne in Buckinghamshire, and how she lived 20 yeeres, by robbing on the high wayes, yet unsuspected of all that knew her; till at last coming to Messeldon, and there robbing and murdering a woman; which woman knew her. and standing by her while she gave three groanes, she spat three drops of blood in her face, which nover could be washt, out, by which shee was knowne, and executed for the aforesaid murder, at the assises in Lent at Brickhill."

To the tune of — The Worthy London Prentice.

TO mourn for my offences,
     And, former passed sins,
This sad and doleful story,
     My heavy heart begins:
Most wickedly I spent my time,
     Devoid of godly grace,
A lewder woman never liv'd,
     I think in any place.

Near Buckingham I dwelled,
     And Susan Higges by name,
Well thought of by good gentlemen,
     And farmers of good fame;
Where thus for twenty years at least,
     I liv'd in gallant sort:
Which made the country marvel much
     To hear of my report.

My state was not maintained,
      (As you shall understand)
By good and honest dealings,
     Nor labours of my hand,
But by deceit and cozening shifts
     The end whereof we see,
Hath ever been repaid with shame,
     And ever like to he.

My servants were young country girls,
     Brought up unto my mind,
By nature fair and beautiful, 
And of a gentle kind:
Who with their sweet enticing eyes
     Did many youngsters move,
To come by night unto my house,
     In hope of further love.

But still at their close meetings
      (As I the plot had laid)
I stept in still at unawares, 
While they the wantons play'd,
And would in question bring their names,
     Except they did agree,
To give me money for this wrong,
     Done to my house and me.

This was but petty cozenage
     To things that I have done,
My weapon by the highway side,
     Hath me much money won:
In men's attire I oft have rode
     Upon a gelding stout.
And done great robberies valiantly,
     The countries round about.

I had my scarfes and vizors
     My face for to disguise,
Sometimes a beard upon my chin,
     To blind the people's eyes:
My Turkey blade and pistols good,
     My courage to maintain,
Thus took I many a farmer's purse
     Well cram'd with golden gain.

Great store of London merchants,
     I boldly have bid stand,
And shewed myself most bravely,
     A woman of my hand:
You ruffling roysters every one,
     In my defence say then
We women still for gallant minds
     May well compare with men.



But if so be it chanced
     The countries were beset,
With hue, and cries, and warrants,
     Into my house I get,
And I so being with my maids,
     Would cloak the matter so,
That no man could, by any means,
     The right offender know. 

Yet God that still most justly
     Doth punish every vice,
Did bring unto confusion,
     My fortunes in a trice;
For by a murder all my sins
     Were strangely brought to light,
And such desert I had by law
     As justice claim'd by right.

Upon the heath of Misseldon,
     I met a woman there,
And robb'd her as from market
     Homewards she did repair,
Which woman call'd me by my name,
     And said that she me knew,
For which even with her life's dear blood
     My hands I did embrue.

But after I had wounded
     This woman unto death,
And that her bleeding body
     Was almost reft of breath:
She gave a groan, and therewithall
     Did spit upon my face
Three drops of blood, that never could
     Be wiped from that place.

For after I returned
     Unto my house again,
The more that I it wash'd
     It more appeared plain:
Each hour I thought that beasts and birds
     This murder would reveal,
Or that the air so vile a deed
     No longer would conceal.

So heavy at my conscience
     This woeful murder lay,
That I was soon enforced,
     The same for to bewray,
And to my servants made it known,
     As God appointed me,
For blood can never secret rest,
     Nor long unpunisht be.

My servants to the justices
     Declar'd what I had said,
For which I was attached,
     And to the  jail convey'd,
And at the 'sizes was condemn'd,
     And had my just desert,
E'en such a death let all them have,
     That hear so false a heart.

So farewell, earthly pleasure,
     My 'quaintance all adieu,
With whom I spent the treasure,
     Which causeth me to rue.
Leave off your wanton pastimes,
     Lascivious and ill,
Which without God's great mercy
     Both soul and body kill.

Be warned by this story
     You ruffling roysters all:
The higher that you climb in sin,
     The greater is your fall:
And since the world so wicked is,
     Let all desire grace,
Grant, Lord, that I the last may be
     That runneth such a race!




A brief Account of a young Damsell near Wolver­hampton, who cut her throat in despair, because she could not have the man she loved. 

To the tune of Russell's Farewell.

NEAR Wolverhampton liv'd a maid,
     Who fell into despair,
Her yielding heart was soon betray'd,
     Into Love's fatal snare:
A young man courted her we find,
     And seeming love did shew,
Yet after all he prov'd unkind,
     Which wrought her overthrow.

Here do I languish in distress,
     The youthful damsel cried,
To see his most unfaithfulness,
     All round on every side:
I nothing see but clouds of grief;
     And storms of bitter woe,
It's death alone must yield relief,
     Love proves my overthrow.

False-hearted Thomas call to mind,
     The solemn vows you made,
That you would never prove unkind,
     And can you now degrade
Your loyal lover now at last,
     And fill my heart with woe,
Which will my life and glory blast,
     And prove my overthrow.

I courted was both day and night,
     At length I gave consent,
This done my love he straight did slight,
     And leaves me to lament;
As if he took delight to see
     Mine eyes like fountains flow,
Oh, most ungrateful man, said she,
     Love proves my overthrow.

Not long ago he did adore;
     My very charms, he cried,
Was ever man so false before, 
     In all the world beside?
A harmless lover to deceive,
     And drown in tears of woe,
This world I am resolv'd to leave,
     Love proves my overthrow.

The killing torment that I feel,
     Doth such a passion raise,
That I no longer can conceal
     The sorrows of my days;
I'll hasten death this very day,
     To ease my heart of woe,
I find there is no other way,
     Love proves my overthrow.

Thus being fill'd with discontent,
     She took a bloody knife,
In desperate sort resolv'd and bent
     To cut the thread of life:
Down from her throat the reeking gore
     In purple streams did flow,
And though she lay a week and more.
     It prov'd her overthrow.

With grief and sorrow compass'd round,
     She languish'd night and day,
At length her fatal bleeding wound,
     Did take her quite away:
And all along before she died,
     Her eyes with tears did flow,
Likewise she wrung her hands and cried,
     Love proves my overthrow.

Farewell to him who is the cause
     Of all my grief and care,
Had he been true to Cupid's laws,
     I solemnly declare,
We might have liv'd in happiness,
     In love and peace I know;
But sorrows do my soul oppress,
     And prove my overthrow,

Though now at present he may have.
     Content, and pleasure find,
When I am sleeping in my grave,
     He then will call to mind.
Who caus'd this present wretched state,
     And fill his heart with woe,
And then he may repent too late
     My dismal overthrow.




The False-hearted Lass of Limehouse.
[From the Pepys Collection.]

To the tune of the Spinning-wheel. Licensed according to order.

You loyal lovers far and near,
     That live and reign in Cupid's court,
I'd have you freely lend an ear,
     While I my sorrows do report:
She that I lov'd has left me o'er;
I'll never trust a woman more.

In her I plac'd my chief delight,
     And was her captive night and day;
For why? her charming beauty bright
     Had clearly stole my heart away:
But she will not my joys restore;
I'll never trust a woman more.

On board of ship I chanc'd to go,
     To serve our good and gracious king:
Now when she found it must be so.
     She did her hands in sorrow wring,
Yet wedded when I left the shore;
I'll never trust a woman more.

My dearest love, she often cry'd,
     Forbear to sail the ocean sea;
If fortune shall us now divide,
     Alas! what will become of me?
This she repeated ten times o'er!
I'll never trust a woman more.

A thousand solemn vows I made,
     And she return'd the like again,
That no one should our hearts invade,
     But both in loyal love remain;
Yet she another had in store!
I'll never trust a woman more.

I was obliged to leave the land,
     And ready to go hoist up sail,
At which tears, in her eyes did stand,
     And bitterly she did bewail;
Yet she another had in store!
I'll never trust a woman more. 

I gave her then a ring of gold,
     To keep in token of true love,
And said, My dearest dear behold!
     I evermore will loyal prove.
She married when I left the shore!
I'll never trust a woman more.

Five months I ploughed the ocean main,
     With courage void of dread and fear;
At length with joy return'd again
     To the embraces of my dear.
But she another had in store!
I'll never trust a woman more.

Constancy doth torture me,
     And make my sorrows most severe;
Like a keen dart it pierc'd my heart,
     For why? I did the tydings hear,
As soon as e'er I came on shore!
I'll never trust a woman more.

Now must I wander in despair,
     I find it is the Fates' decree;
My grief is more than I can bear,
     I can love none alive but she:
Farewell, farewell, my native shore!
I'll never trust a woman more.



INTO Bohemia dwelt a king,
     Pandosto high, to name:
He had a queen, Bellaria call'd,
     Fair, beauteous, and of fame.

He had a friend Egestus call'd,
     A king of great renown,
And for love of Pandosto he
     Did leave his land and crown.

And to Bohemia he did sail,
     Pandosto for to see:
Who with Bellaria, his queen,
     Receiv'd him royally.

Royall Bellaria lov'd her lord
     Which her constrain'd and mov'd.
To welcome his most noble friend,
     Whom he most dearly lov'd.

This King and Queen familiar growes,
     Pandosto he beholds
Bellaria with Egestus walk,
      (Array'd in robes of gold.)

Into the garden, hand in hand,
     He sees them sporting go,
Pandosto groweth jealous straight,
     And turn'd Egestus foe.

One Franion, his cup bearer,
     He doth unto him call:
And chargeth him with poyson strong
     To make Egestus fall.

Franion refus'd, but yet the king
     With threats did him ov'rset:
And with fair words, when he had done,
     Promised to make him great.

But Franion the cup bearer
     This matter did reveal;
And with Egestus secretly
     Away by night did steal;

Thinking it better were for him
     Never to see his king,
Than traitorously, without a cause,
     To do so vile a thing.

Pandosto's jealousie more burns,
     When he saw they were gone;
And for Bellaria he sent,
     Who quickly to him came.

And with wilde speeches in his ire,
     His noble queen blasphem'd:
And with the wilde name of a whore,
     In his fierce wrath her nam'd. 

With speed he calls a parliament,
     And her in prison cast,
Intending till he took her life,
     Therefore to keep her fast.

It is her hap to be with child,
     Which when the king doth see,
Then more and more his wrath doth burn
     In that mad jealousie.
Still swearing his queen's life to have;
     But here begins the strife,
For all the parliament did seek
     To save Bellaria's life.                                    

He swears she and her child shall die,
     His nobles all before,
Go fetch, he says, to parliament,
     That filthy odious whore.

In vain thus with the King they strive,
     Yet one brave lord at last
Gives forth his vote to save the Queen,
     And forth his verdict past.

Send quickly post to Delphus Isle
     To Apollo and see,
And at that Oracle enquire
     To know the veritie.

And to this lord they all agreed,
     And quickly sent away
Men, who till they to Delphus came,
     Posted both night and day.

And having their devotions done,
     Apollo cry'd at last,
Bohemians that which ye find
     Behind the altar cast.

Take up: but do not look thereon,
     Nor let no man it see,
Till that ye both before the King
     And parliament shall be.

The scrol they took and posted home,
     The King doth them require,
To see the scrol, which he did think
     Would satiate his desire.

But they him told what charge they got,
     When they did it receive:
And also what instructions
     Apollo to them gave;

The parliament conveens, the King
     From prison brought the Queen:
Which was but newly brought to bed,
     And was a woman green;

Whose child the King caus'd take her from,
     And said to death put straight
That bastard brat, and let it not
     Appear into my sight.

The executioners abhor'd
     So vile a cruel deed:
And in a boat unto the sea,
     They do it send with speed.

Which neither sail nor ruther had,
     Nor company therein,
And to seas fury they commit
     It for to sink or swim.

With trees branches an arbor made,
     Therein a purse of gold,
And with rich jewels, from the Queen,
     This babe they there uproll'd. 

A storm arose, this little boat
     Drives to Egestus land,
shepherd, that was keeping sheep,
     Doth find it on the sand.

He looks upon the childs beautie,
     Covered with cloath of gold
The like his eyes did never see,
     So glorious to behold.

He surely thought it was a god,
     And down he kneeIs to pray:
But when the child began to cry,
     He bore it thence away.

The jewels and the gold he takes,
     And calls the child his own
And Faunia he doth her name,
     Who grew a beauteous one.

So that her fame came unto court,
     The prince came her to see.
Who having lookt this nymph upon,
     Was ravisht presently.

Dorastus was the prince's name.
     Who with a full intent,
Most earnestly did sue for love,
     With thousand complements.

With modest meekness she refus'd?
     Saying she'd love him dear,
If that she equall were with him,
     Or he a shepherd were.

At last the prince his father told,
     But he right furiously,
Says who's this entysde my son,
     I vow that he shall die.

This to prevent, the prince provides
     A ship to save their life;
And with one servant and his love,
     The shepherd and his wife:

To sea they go, and they arrive
     In her own father's land:
But let us of her mother speak,
     Which doth in judgment stand.

Apollo's answer to the King,
     And all his parliament;
Which to this purpose spake, was read,
     Which made the King lament.

Suspicion is no proof at all,
     Jealousie judgeth wrong:
Egestus and the Queen are chaste,
     True Franion did no wrong. 

Treacherously Pandosto's guiltless babe;
     Is sent unto the sea,
And if she be not found again,
     He without child shall die.

With tears the King seeks to comfort
     His royal loving wife.
But before all the parliament,
     In his armes ends her life.

For brevitie I do omit,
     To show how all did mourn:
To Dorastus and Faunia,
     I purpose to return.

That beauteous couple privately,
     Did pass their time away;
The King took of her beauty heed,
     For they near court did stay.

The King with fair words, and with threats,
     Did seek her love to gain:
But constantly she him refus'd,
     His sute was all in vain.

In prison all the King them cast,
     The shepherd and his wife,
Dorastus, and fair Faunia,
     Swearing to take her life.

The shepherd's first examined,
     Whom of that knight was come:
Who presently did plain confess,
     He's King Egestus son.

From prison then the King him brought,
     And doth him honour much:
The shepherd hath to prison sent,
     And Faunia forth do fetch.

Fair Faunia is now brought forth,
     And doth in judgment stand;
How dost thou whore entyse this prince,
     Or in his presence stand? 

This spake the King 'twixt ire and lust,
     And brought the shepherd syne,
Which, fraught with fear of death, did
     She is no child of mine.

I found her in a little boat,
     Her cloaths I'le let you see;
And chain that was about her neck,
     I have all here by me.

Her chains and bracelets he did show,
     To the King presently:
Also the mantle with his armes,
     Which on his bed did ly.

Which when the King did all behold,
     Remembering what was past,
He presently gave them his crown,
     And he to cloister past.

Egestus to their wedding came,
     And reconciled was
Unto Pandosto, who to him
     Did cry full oft, alace!

For my sweet Queen Bellaria fair,
     And for this sinful lust,
Which to my daughter I conceiv'd,
     And for my thoughts unjust.

To thee, my friend and neighbour true,
     And for my sinful life,
To monastrie I now will go,
     Till death shall end my strife.

Royall Dorastus, and his Queen,
     Without all kind of strife,
Of both the lands receiv'd the crown,
     After Egestus life.

Judge all now of Bohemia's joy,
     How every one did sing
A joyful noise in every place,
     Through all the land did ring.



From "The Romance of the History of Palmendos, son to the most renowned Palmerin d'oliva." 1653.

"The mother and her daughter ran furiously on Palmendos, labouring to do him what injury they could: but he (un­willing to hurt them), suffered their violence, till Ozalioe's squire seeing their impatience, and fearing with their knives they would in the end murder him, took up ore of the guards hatchets, and therewith deprived the mother of her life.

"Iffida extremely rabing at this grievous spectacle, rent her hair from her head, and with her nails, most cruelly mar­tyred her face; then being suddenly surprised with a raging apoplexy, she presently died without using any more speeches. The Page grieving to behold this woeful acci­dent, determined not to live any long er after her; but first upon the wail he wrote certain dolorous verses, which afterward were converted to a funeral ditty, in this manner:"

DEAD is the bud of beauty's chief delight,
The fairest flower on whom the sun did shine,
The choice belov'd of many a famous knight,
The pride of honour, precious and divine:
     The lovely maid of whom the nymphs did sing,
     That nature never fram'd so rare a thing.

Had Paris seen this wondrous piece of art,
Proud Venus had not carried beauty's prize,
Pallas and Juno would have stood apart,
To see their gifts one virgin royalize:
     In every point surpassing curious,
     Had fate and fortune been as gracious.

Ungentle star, that domineer'd the day,
When first my lady mistress breath'd this air,
What angry object stood then in the way,
To cross the course that was begun so fair!
     You lowring heavens, why did ye oppress
     The saint whom you so many ways did bless!

But, wretch! why stand'st thou charging these with guilt,
And art thyself the author of this ill?
Thou hapless boy thy lady's blood hast spilt,
Thy master and his servants thou didst kill.
     When first thou travell'dst for this trothless man,
     Even in that hour these miseries began.

But, sovereign Love, immortal and divine;
Whose gracious name did shadow this abuse,
Canst thou permit before thy holy eyn,
This heinous deed exempt from all excuse?
     O mighty Love, what will thy subjects say;
     If foul offence go unrevenged away?

Stand I expostulating this or that,
When on my back the weighty burthen lies;
Waste no more time with vain and idle chat,
But for this fault be thou a sacrifice.
     Fair Iffida, thy page doth follow thee,
     The only engine of this tragedy.



from "The Famous Historie of the Seaven Champions of Christendome."

"During which time faire Rossalinde (one of the daughters  of the Thracian King, being as then prisoner in the Castle) by chance looked over the walls, and espyed the body of the Gyant headlesse, under whose subjection shee had con­tinued in great servitude for the time of seaven moneths, likewise by him a knight unarmed, as shee thought panting for breath, the which the lady judged to be the knight that had slaine the Gyant Blanderon, and the man by whom her delivery should be recovered, shee presently descended the walles of the castle, and ran with all speed to the adventurous champion, whom shee found dead. But yet being nothing discouraged of his recovery, feeling as yet a warme bloud in every member, retired back with all speede to the castle, and fetcht a boxe of precious balme, the which the Gyant was wont to poure into his wounds after his encounter with any Knight; with which balme this courteous lady chafed every part of the breathlesse champion's bodie, one while washing his stiffe lims with her salt teares the which like pearles fell from her eyes, another while drying them with the tresses of her golden hayre, which hung dangling in the winde, then chafing his livelesse body againe with a balme of a contrary nature, but yet no signe of life could shee espie in the dead Knight: which caused her to grow desperate of all hope of his recoverie. Therefore like a loving, meeke, and kinde ladie, considering he had lost his life for her sake, shee intended to beare him company in death, and with her owne hands to finish up her dayes, and to dye upon his breast as Thisbe died upon the brest of her true Pyramus; therefore as the swanne sings a while before her death, so this sorrowful lady warbled forth this swan-like son; over the bodie of the noble champion."

MUSES come mourn with doleful melody,
Kind Sylvan Nymphs that sit in rosy bowers,
With bracking tears commix your harmony
To wail with me both minutes, days, and hours.
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.

Dead is the Knight for whom I live and die,
Dead is the Knight which for my sake is slain,
Dead is the Knight for whom my careful cry,
With wounded soul for ever shall complain,
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.

I'll lay my breast upon a silver stream,
And swim unto Elysium's lilly fields;
There in ambrosian trees I'll write a theme
Of all the woeful sighs any sorrow yields.
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.

Farewell, fair woods, where sing the nightingales,
Farewell, fair fields, where feed the light-foot does,
Farewell, you groves, you hills and flowery dales,
But fare thou ill, the cause of all my woes:
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.

Ring out my ruth, you hollow eaves of stone,
Both birds and beasts with all things on the ground:
You senseless trees, be assistant to my moan,
That up to heaven my sorrows may resound. 
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To ease my heart a while before I die.

Let all the towns of Thrace ring out my knell,
And write in leaves of brass what I have said,
That after ages may remember well,
How Rossalind both liv'd, and died a maid:
A heavy, sad, and swan-like song, sing I,
To case my heart a while before I die.

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