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EBBA 20125

Magdalene College - Pepys
Ballad XSLT Template
The two Welsh Lovers,
The British Nymph that long was in her life,
A changing Maid, but a recanting Wife.
Let every man that would win a Maids favour,
At home keepe with her, if he meane to have her.
To the tune of the Blazing Torch.

AS late I walkt the Meades along,
where Severns streames did glide;
I heard a mournfull Shepherds song,
and him at last espide.
He wrung his hands and wept apace,
to mourne he did not lin:
Rivers of teares ran downe his face,
and still he cride Due gwin.

I drew me neere unto the Swaine,
and prayd him tell the cause,
Why he so sadly did complaine,
he silent made a pause.
At length he raisd himselfe to speake,
yet e're he could begin;
He sigh'd as if his heart would breake,
and cryde alas Due gwin.

Quoth he, Among yon Brittish hills,
where Zephirus doth breathe:
Where flowers sweet the Meadows fills,
and valleys underneathe,
And neere unto that fountaine head,
where Dee comes flowing in:
Ah me, that fatall Nymph was bred,
for whom I cryde Due gwin.

I loved her once, but now I rue,
that I was such an Asse:
For she did prove the most untrue,
that ever woman was.
Faire was her face, great was her fame,
had she still constant bin:
But, Oh, her heart was not the same:
which makes me cry Due gwin.

Once had I power, till her command
forbad that power to rise,
Further then touching of her hand,
or looking on her eyes.
I feard to contradict her will,
as though it were a sinne:
Yet she rewards my good with ill,
which makes me cry Due gwin.

I thought I had her free consent,
but it prov'd quite contrarie:
For while I on a journey went,
another she did marrie.
Cause I was absent for a space,
and thought no hurt therein:
Another did possesse my place,
which made me cry Due gwin,

When I returned home againe,
I thought with her to wed:
But there I found my labour vaine,
for she before was sped.
Which when I saw, I sigh'd and sobd,
and made a pitious din:
Wishing him hang'd that had me robd,
and made me cry Due gwin.

It seemes by this, 'tis hard to finde
a woman true in heart:
Beleeve them not, though they seeme kind,
they can deceive by art.
We men may woe and use the meanes,
at us they laugh and grin:
Thus we are crost by faithlesse queanes,
which makes us cry Due gwin.

The second Part. To the same tune.
With the Nymphs Recantation.

NOw when the Nymph did see the swain
was safe returned at last:
Most petuously she did complaine,
to thinke of what was past.
The sting of conscience did her pricke,
calling to minde her sinne:
Immediatly she fell sore sicke,
and cryde alas Due gwin.

No comfort could she take at all,
to cure her inward smart:
She thought it bootlesse to recall
the folly of her heart.
It might have greev'd a man to see,
the case that she was in:
My fond mistrust of him, quoth she,
thus makes me cry Due gwin.

Oh had I never seene mans face,
since my deere shepheard went:
Then had I never knowne disgrace,
but liv'd still continent.
Or if within some sacred cell,
I had included bin:
I had remained constant still.
but now I cry Due gwin.

Thus having wept for her offence,
she sent unto her swaine:
Desiring that without offence,
she might his sight obtaine.
At her request he went apace,
her husband not within:
As soone as e're she saw his face,
she wept and cryde Due gwin.

What speeches past betweene these twaine
were needlesse here to tell:
The Nymph imbrac'd and kist her Swain,
and all was wondrous well.
He needs no elegance of phrase,
her favour now to win,
Her griefe was turn'd to fond love plaies,
she cryde no more Due gwin.

Deare love, quoth she, what's done & past,
I cannot now recant:
Yet what I have, while life doth last,
my shepheard shall not want.
What though my husbands forehead ake,
I weigh it not a pin:
Yet if by chance he should us take,
we both must cry Due gwin.

Thus were the lovers perfect friends,
the Nymph, as best became her,
Did make her shepheard such amend,
he knew not how to blame her.
Yet let all young men keepe [?]
if they their loves w[?]
If they be lost while [?]
then they may cry [Due gwin.]

By Martin [Parker]
London Printed for Joh[n Trundle]
to be told at his shop [?]
tall gate in S[?]

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