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EBBA 20168

Magdalene College - Pepys
Ballad XSLT Template
The diseased Maiden Lover.
Being a pleasant new court Song: To an exeellent new tune,
Or to be sung to the tune of Bonny Nell.

AS I went forth one Summers day,
To view the Meddowes fresh and gay,
A pleasant Bower I espi'd,
Standing hard by a Rivers side:
and in't I heard a Mayden cry,
alas, there's none ere lov'd like I.

I couched close to heare her moane,
With many a heavie groane,
And wisht that I had beene the wight,
That might have bred her hearts delight:
but these were all the words that she,
did still repeat, none loves like me.

Then round the Meddowes did she walke,
Catching each flower by the stalke,
Such as within the Meddowes grew.
As Dead-mans thumbe, and Hare-bell blue:
and as she pluckt them, still cryde she,
alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.

A bed therein she made to lie:
Of fine greene things that grew fast by,
Of Poplers, and of Willow leaves,
Of Sicamore and Flaggy sheaves:
and as she pluckt them, still cryde she,
alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.

The little Lark-foote shee'd not passe,
Nor yet the flowers of Three-leav'd grasse,
With Milkemayds Honny Succles phraise,
The Crowes foot, nor the yellow Crayse,
and as she pluckt them, still cride she,
alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.

The pretty Dasie which doth show
Her love to Phoebus, bred her woe;
Who joyes to see his cheerefull face,
And mournes when he is not in place,
alacke, alacke, alacke, quoth she,
there's none that ever lov'd like me.

The Flowers of the Sweetest sent,
She bound them round with knotted Bent,
And as she layd them still in bands,
She wept, she wayl'd, and wrung her hands,
alas, alas, alas, quoth she,
there's none that ever lov'd like me.

False man, quoth she, forgive thee heaven,
As I doe wish my sinnes forgiven,
In blest Elizium I shall sleepe,
When thou with perjur'd soules shalt weep
who when they liv'd, did like to thee,
that lov'd their Loves as thou dost mee.

When she had fild her Apron full,
Of such sweet Flowers as she could cull;
The greene leaves serv'd her for a Bed,
The Flowers pillowes for her head,
Then down she lay, ne're more did speake,
alas with love her heart did breake.

F I N I S.
Printed at London for J. Wright.
The Faithlesse Lover.
To the same tune.

WHen I had seene this Virgins end,
I sorrowed as became a friend,
And wept to see that such a Mayd
Should be by faithlesse love betrayd.
but woe (I feare) will come to thee,
that was not true in love as shee.

The Birds did cease their Harmony,
The harmelesse Lambs did seeme to cry,
The Flowers they did hang their head,
The Flower of Maydens being dead,
whose life by death is now set free,
and none did love more deare than shee.

The bubbling brookes did seeme to moane,
And Eccho from the Vales did groane;
Diana's Nimphs did ring her knell,
And to their Queene the same did tell,
who vowed by her chastitie,
that none should take revenge but she.

When as I saw her corps were cold,
I to her Lover went, and told
What chance unto this Mayd befell,
Who sayd, I am glad she sped so well.
d'ee thinke that I so fond would bee,
to love no Mayde but onely shee?

I was not made for one alone,
I take delight to heare them moane;
When one is gone, I will have more:
That man is rich, that hath most store,
I bondage hate, I must live free,
and not be ty'd to such as shee.

Oh Sir, remember, (then quoth I)
The power of Heavens All-seeing eye,
Who doth remember vowes forgot,
Though you denie you know it not:
call to your minde this Mayden free,
the which was wrong'd by none but thee.

Quoth he, I have a love more faire,
Besides, she is her Fathers heire,
A bonny Lasse doth please my minde,
That unto me is wondrous kinde:
her will I love, and none but she,
who still shall welcome be to me.

False-minded man that so would prove,
Disloyall to thy dearest Love,
Who at her death for thee did pray,
And wisht thee many a happy day.
I would my Love would but love me,
even halfe so well as shee lov'd thee.

Faire Maydens will example take,
Young-men will curse thee for her sake:
They'l stop their eares unto our plaints,
And call us Devils seeming Saints:
they'l say to day, that we are kinde,
tomorrow of another minde.


Printed at London for John Wright.

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