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EBBA 30457

British Library - Roxburghe
Ballad XSLT Template
Looking-glass for Maids:
The Downfal of two most Desperate Lovers.
Henry Hartlove and William Martin, both late living in the Isle of Wight, who for the love of Ann
Scarborow a beautiful Virgin, she having made her self sure to one of them, and afterwards fell off
to the other, they challenged the field, where after a cruel fight, they were mortally Wounded
and found dead on the place by the forementioned Maiden, who bestowed many tears on their bo-
dies, and buried them in one Grave.
Tune is, Aim not too High.
And now she lives in grief and sad distress,
Wishing all Lovers true more happiness.

UNhappy I who in the prime of youth,
Unkind to him with whom I broke my truth
Mark well my words you that are maids & wives
I was the cause that two men lost their lives.

Ith Isle of Wight, Ann Scarborow was my name
There did I live in credit, wealth and fame,
My Parents rich, I nothing then did lack,
But grace and truth, the which did go to wrack.

A Gentleman a Suitor to me came,
With whom I might have livd a gallant dame,
But wantonness and pride did seize my heart,
Was sure to him, and yet from him did part.

He broke a piece of gold and gave it me,
Then did I seemingly to him agree,
But, O, my heart was never rightly placd
Another man I afterward imbracd.

Which when he knew, he fell into despair,
He beat his breast, and tore his curled hair:
A who would trust a Woman, then said he,
That seldome are what they do seem to be.

Now I do find that all a man can do,
His best endeavours makes not women true,
Yet he that hath an interest in your heart,
Shall buy you dearly, fore that we do part.

Then came the other, whom I lovd so well,
But now behold a heavy hap befel,
When first my Love his Rival had beheld,
He cast his glove and challengd him the field.

To answer him the other thought it fit,
He said he ner was known a Coward yet:
He for my favour then so much did strive,
He said hed fight with any man alive.

Next morning then these Gentlemen did meet,
And manfully they did each other greet,
Each other wounded in most piteous sort,
Ere any man unto them did resort.

At last they made a strong and desperate close,
Both fell to ground and never after rose,
Curst be the place where these brave men did fall,
And curst be I who was the cause of all.

When word was brought to me I quickly went,
But ere I came their lives alass was spent,
Then did I tear the hair from off my head,
And wisht a thousand times that I were dead.

When I came there these gallants then I found,
Both of them liveless bleeding on the ground,
My conscience told me I was cause of this,
Sweet Jesus now forgive me my amiss.

I buried them and laid them in one grave,
God grant their souls a resting place may have,
More rest then I, whose restless conscience now
Accuses me for breaking of my vow.

If I walk near the place where now they lye,
It troubleth my mind exceedingly,
If to the place where they did fight I go,
It fills my guilty consciene full of woe.

If I to Bed do go, I cannot sleep,
And if I do, my dreams do make me Weep;
Methinks I see them bleeding in my sight,
My thoughts by day, and eke my dreams by night.

My rich apparel I have laid a side,
My cloth of gold, and other things of Pride,
In Sable will I mourn while I have breath
And every day expect and look for death.

A dead mans skull my silver Cup shall be,
In which ile drink, too good a cup for me,
Instead of meat, on Roots and Herbs ile feed
To put me still in mind of my foul Deed.

You woody Nymphs that welcome in the Spring,
Come hear a discontented Virgin Sing;
O that I might my time now with you spend,
In silent Groves, until my life doth end.

You Country Maids, in Country, and in City,
That now have heard my discontented Ditty,
Be constant, ever true to one alone,
For if you prove false it will soon be known.

If you will know where sorrow doth abide
Repair to me, no other place beside,
Grief and despair doth daily now attend me,
& there is nought but death that can befriend me.

This discontented Damsel now she keeps
Her Chamber, where she sits and dayly weeps
And suffers none to come to her, tis said,
But onely one, and thats her fathers Maid.

The meat and Drink her Father to her sends,
She sends the poor, the which she calls her friends;
She feeds on roots, and Herbs, and such Like things
sometims on bread, which she counts food for Kings.

See here the fruits of wantonness and pride,
O let us pray that God may be our guide,
Theres few of us but have our time ill spent,
So well brought up, that do so well repent.

You Damsels all, now have a special care,
Forget not her, that did these things declare;
Be to your Sweet-hearts ever just and true,
And so fair Maids she bids you all adieu.

London, Printed for Tho. Vere, at the Angel without Newgate.

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