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EBBA 30218

British Library - Roxburghe
Ballad XSLT Template
The Lovers complaint
for the losse of his Love.
To a pleasant new tune.

I Wander up and downe,
and no body cares for me,
Though I am but poore and browne,
yet constant will I be:
My dearest love farewell,
a thousand times adew,
Seeing thou hast forsaken me,
and changed me for a new:

I never gave thee cause,
why thou shouldst me forsake,
Nor never brake the faithfull vow
that you and I did make:
Farwell my dearest love,
I tooke thee at thy word,
Hard hap had I to beate the bush,
and another to catch the bird.

I will goe range abroad,
Ile find some other thing:
If I had knowne you would have flowne,
I would have clipt your wing:
Would you have clipt my wing,
she answered me againe,
You might have done it in the wood,
you know the time and when.

Farewell my dearest love,
to thee I made my sute,
Hard hap had I to graft the tree,
another to reape the fruite,

I alwaies waile in woe,
I travile still in paine,
I see my true love where shee goes,
I hope sheel come againe.

I heard a pretty tune,
concerning to a song:
A lover mourning for his love,
and said she did him wrong:
He had her in the wood,
he might have wrought his will,
Pittie it was to doe him good
that had no better skill.

In woods or desert place,
had I ere my love so,
I thinke I would have plaid with her,
before I had let her goe:
Had she bin light of love,
I should have soone espied:
I trow I would a clipt her wing,
and caus[]d her to abide.

Should I let scape the Bird,
that I had fast on fist?
Then let her laugh and scuffe at me,
and use me as she list.
He still doth beate the bush,
although the bird be lost:
And being slothfull in his suit,
thus fortune hath him crost.

If with my love in woods,
so happy were I sped,
I should suppose my hap were hard,
to misse her maiden head,
Good friend be ruld by me,
that made this mortall song,
If thou wander up and downe,
thy selfe hath done thee wrong.

Thou alwaies wailst in woe,
thou travailest still in paine:
Looke yonder where my true love goes,
she will never come againe:
Therefore be rulde by me,
and let thy lover passe:
If thou looke well thy chance may be,
to find another lasse.


FINIS.
Printed by the Assignes of Thomas
Symcocke.

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