The wofull complaint, and lamentable death of a forsaken Lover.
To a pleasant new tune.
|
DOwne by a forrest where as I did passe,
|
to see that sport abroad there was,
|
Walking by a pleasant spring,
|
the Birds in sundry notes did sing.
|
Long time wandring here and there,
|
to see what sports in forrests were,
|
At length I heard one make great mone,
|
saying, From me all joyes are gone.
|
I gave good heed unto the same,
|
musing from whence this Eccho came:
|
But by no meanes I could devise,
|
from whence this sorrowfull sound did rise,
|
But in that place did still remaine,
|
untill I heard it once againe.
|
Then presently I heard one say,
|
O death, come take my life away.
|
I looked downe upon my right hand,
|
a sort of pleasant trees did stand:
|
And under them I did behold
|
a pleasant place with shadowes cold.
|
A sumptuous place was in the same,
|
musing from whence this Eccho came:
|
Then in that place I did perceive,
|
a Gentleman both fine and brave.
|
And from that place hee did come downe,
|
casting from him a mourning Gowne,
|
Walking up and downe the place,
|
me thought a proper man he was:
|
Thus to himselfe he did lament,
|
wishing to God his dayes were spent,
|
His torments did increase so sore,
|
his heart was able to beare no more:
|
I stept into a hollow tree,
|
because I would his passion see:
|
With folded armes looking to skies,
|
the teares alas stood in his eyes:
|
And carelesse of his life he seem'd,
|
pitty he was no more esteem'd:
|
Then downe he laid him on the ground:
|
no ease to sorrow can be found.
|
Thus he lamented in wofull case,
|
seven long yeeres within few dayes,
|
Saying, While I live, I must remaine,
|
I find no ease to helpe my paine:
|
For she that should my sorrowes remove,
|
she doth disdaine to be my Love,
|
And hath beene since that she did heare,
|
that I good will to her did beare.
|
Ye gods above come ease my paine,
|
sith heavy griefe doth me constraine,
|
For whilst my corps remaines, on earth,
|
shall shew the causes of my death.
|
Every tree that here doth stand,
|
shall be engraven with mine owne hand,
|
That they long time may witnesse beare,
|
Love was the cause I died here.
|
Nature did to her so much right,
|
scorning to take the helpe of Art:
|
And in as many vertues dight,
|
as ever did imbrace a heart.
|
Being so good, so truly tried,
|
O some for lesse were deifi'd,
|
Full of pitty as may be,
|
and yet perhaps not so to me.
|
When first I saw her pleasant face,
|
me thought a joyfull sight it was:
|
Her beauty tooke my wits away,
|
I knew not how one word to say,
|
A Gentleman tooke her to dance,
|
she gallantly her selfe could prance,
|
And kept her order in good time,
|
I wish to God she had beene mine.
|
But when I thought she had been mine owne,
|
then was she farthest from me flowne:
|
She gave no eare unto my cry,
|
which makes me here in sorrow die,
|
For she was in another mind,
|
which to my paine I often find,
|
Of all my hopes I am beguild,
|
which makes me walke in woods so wilde.
|
|
|
|
|
The second part, To the same tune.
|
TO silent trees I make my mone,
|
and birds and beasts doe heare me grone,
|
Yet shee that should my griefe remove,
|
disloyall wretch to me did prove.
|
My love to her was constant pure,
|
and to my end will so indure,
|
And Jove to her I hope will send
|
a grieved minde before her end.
|
I have forsaken friends and kinne,
|
my dayes to end these woods within,
|
My pleasure past I now do leave,
|
sweet Saviour now my soule receive.
|
Beare witnesse heaven of my griefe,
|
to ease my heart send some reliefe,
|
Faire Maids, unto your lovers be true,
|
if first be good, change not for new.
|
O young men all, be warn'd by me:
|
gaze not too much on womans beauty,
|
Lest that you be so fettered fast,
|
you cannot be enlarged at last.
|
Some womens wils they are well knowne,
|
in love oft changing sticke to none:
|
They'le sweare they love you with their heart,
|
when mind and tongue are both apart.
|
My love to her I did reveale,
|
and from her nothing did conceale,
|
Though at the first she seemed coy.
|
she said at the last, I was her joy,
|
And none but I her love should have,
|
what need I any more to crave?
|
But Haggard-like she me abus'd,
|
another chosen and I refus'd.
|
When he had bewail'd his sorrowes long,
|
hee tooke a Lute that by him hung,
|
And on the lute he sweetly plaid,
|
and unto it these words he said:
|
O death, when will the houre come,
|
that I have waited on so long?
|
For whilst I live I languish still,
|
finding no helpe to ease my ill.
|
Then quite he flung his lute away,
|
and tooke a sword that by him lay,
|
Sayes, Oft thou hast been thy masters friend,
|
and now thou shalt his torments end.
|
He gave true sentence in that place,
|
to end his life in a wofull case.
|
The hilt he strooke downe to the ground,
|
and gave himselfe a deadly wound.
|
Then unto him I ranne amaine,
|
but out alas it was all in vaine:
|
For long before to him I came,
|
his death he had upon the same.
|
I found his grave was ready made,
|
wherein I thought he should be laid.
|
And in that place I laid him downe,
|
and over spred his mourning Gowne.
|
Over his Grave his sword I laid,
|
whereon his death he had receiv'd,
|
Upon his Lute a peale I rung,
|
and by the place the same I hung.
|
Then I beheld on every tree,
|
her name that was his onely joy,
|
Which long before his face did stand,
|
because she got the [upp]er hand.
|
This Maid that did doe all this wrong,
|
to live a Maid thought it ore-long,
|
Married she is to such a one,
|
that daily makes her sigh and groane,
|
Her coynesse to her former Love,
|
disloyall then, now truely proves:
|
Take heed faire Maids, for you may see
|
wrongs alwayes will revenged be:
|
Thus you women will use your skill,
|
let us poore men say what we will.
|
|
|
|
|