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EBBA 32704

National Library of Scotland - Crawford
Ballad XSLT Template
The Life of LOVE.
Let he or she, from Chains are free,
prize high their Liberty.
Loves a Disease that seems to please
yet breeds Captivity.
To the Tune of, The Fair one let me In: Or, Busie Fame,
This may be Printed, R. P.

ALL you that do in Love delight,
now mind what I relate;
And give your judgement now aright,
of this my cruel Fate:
I loved one most tenderly.
that lovd not me again:
Though I for him could freely dye,
he pays me with disdain.

And yet upon him I must dote,
O what a Fool am I:
Though yet I love him well I knowt,
tis meer Simplicity,
To mourn for him who laughs at me,
ith midst of all my pain;
When he should be most kind to me,
He doth me most disdain.

Hard hap I had in this my Choice,
to meet one so unkind;
Whilst others sweetly do rejoyce,
no Comfort I can find:
But sighing waste myself away,
and linger in my Chain;
I pine for him both night and day,
that doth me still disdain.

This is Unjustice to the heighth,
that Reason contradicts;
Both night and day for him to sigh,
that my poor heart afflicts:
Oh! I had rather chuse to dye,
then in this state remain,
Tis worse then Death assuredly,
to meet with such disdain.

WEll since I must this grief endure,
ile now resign my breath;
For being past all hopes of Cure,
I covet for my Death:
For I shall never quiet be,
while I do here remain;
Come Death and strike immediately,
then farewell his disdain.

Then down her Cheeks the tears did run
and oft she wisht in vain;
For that which could not well be won,
which much encreasd her pain,
Come Death, quoth she, & Pierce my heart,
let me no more complain;
I long to feel thy killing dart,
since he doth me disdain.

The Young-Mans Loving answer.
MY dear youre too too much unkind
against me thus to speak;
For thou shalt see I will prove kind,
thy heart it shall not break:
For every tear that thou hast spent,
I bottle up in store;
Believe me Love, tis my intent,
that thou shouldst grieve no more.

No no, forbear to mourn for me,
who loves thee tenderly,
I will be faithful unto thee,
and constant till I dye:
Thou art an Angel unto me,
tis thee I do adore;
In thee alone I do delight,
then grieve for me no more.

It piercd me through my tender heart,
to hear thee thus complain;
It is not in the power of art,
to make me thee disdain:
My Love is spotless I protest,
none ere lovd so before;
My dear, I do not speak in jest,
then grieve for me no more.

Let this my Love a pattern be,
to all both young and old;
Who say, they love unfeignedly,
but yet I dare be bold
To say, that many do deceive,
for scarce one in a Score,
That say they love you may believe,
but mind such Blades no more.


Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in Pye Corner.

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