Close ×

Search EBBA

EBBA 30923

British Library - Roxburghe
Ballad XSLT Template
The Tormented Lovers.
Maidens Lament their present State,
And count they meet with rigid Fate;
But ere they will their minds explain,
Theyl dye of their Tormenting Pain.
To a pleasant Play-house Tune, called, Oh Love! if ere thoult ease a Heart.

O Love if ere thoult ease a Heart,
that owns thy power Divine,
That Bleeds with thy too cruel Dart;
Yea, Burns with never ceasing smart;
take pitty now on mine:
Beneath the shades, I fainting lye;
Ten-Thousand times I wish to dye;
Yet when I find cold Death draw nigh,
I grive to loose my pleasing pain,
and call my Wishes back again.

Thus I sate musing all alone,
in the shady myrtle Grove,
As to my self, I made a moan,
And every Eccho gave a Groan;
came by the Man I Lovd.
Oh! How I strove, my Griefs to hide,
I Panted, Sighd, and almost Dyd,
Yet did each tatling Eccho chide;
for fear some Breath of moving Air,
should to his Ears my Sorrows bear.

And [n]ow you Powers, I dye to gain,
but one poor parting Kiss;
Yet will endure this deadly pain,
Ere Ile one Wish or Thought retain,
that Honour thinks amiss.
Thus are poor maids unkindly usd,
By Love and Nature, both abusd,
All kinds of Comforts are refusd:
for when we burn with secret Flame,
we hide our griefs, or dye with shame.

Such Torments we poor Maids endure;
the like was never known,
In any former Age tis sure,
Nor can we hope to find a cure
which moves us thus to moan:
In secret places, where we lye,
Each Minute ready for to dye;
And all in vain, for help we cry.
For comfortless we still remain,
torturd with grief, and wreckt with pain.

OUr Lives are comfortless to us,
except we them injoy;
Who cause us for to Languish thus:
Whod think the want of one poor Buss,
could Maidens thus annoy;
That night and day we should Lament,
And wast away in discontent;
Our Follies still we do repent:
but tis in vain, for tis too late,
for to lament our rigid fate.

We must these Torments still endure,
except Men prove more kind;
Nought else to us can joy procure,
Or bring that Bliss which will endure,
as comfort to the mind.
Languishing thoughts do us consume,
And in the end will prove our doom;
Yea, bring each Maiden to her Tomb;
who can her Love no ways obtain,
but dies, because she Loves in vain.

What rigid fate is this we meet,
each hour of every day,
Whilst Men their days are blest and sweet,
In ery part our Pulses beat,
and we consume away.
Wheres Cupids court of equity,
For Poets say, it so should be;
But such a thing, I ner could see,
which forces me for to complain,
although I find tis all in vain.

Then let us bid this World farewell,
since we no joys can find.
Elizium will this place excell;
For this to us is present Hell,
tormenting every mind;
Who feels the smart of Cupids Bow,
Is weary of her Life, I know
She doth Torments undergo,
and therefore will be free to part,
from this sad world, to ease her Heart.

Yet those who can their Loves injoy,
thrice happy sure are they,
Nothing on Earth can them annoy;
What crosses can their Bliss destroy,
who surfeit every day.
Banquets of Kisses do they tast;
While we for want consume and wast:
Unto the Grave, then let us hast;
for Death must be our chiefest friend,
and put our Sorrows to an end.

Tormented Heart, then brake and dye,
since Ime so slighted here;
In flames of fire, I scorch and fry,
And so shall do perpetually,
till I injoy my dear;
Which if I never can obtain,
To hope to Live, as all in vain;
For I with Sorrow shall be Slain;
yet freely will this Word depart,
with a true Lovers Broken-Heart.

London, Printed for Charles Passenger, on London-Bridge.

View Raw XML