Close ×

Search EBBA

EBBA 34977

Houghton Library - EBB65
Ballad XSLT Template
THE
London Lads Lamentation
TO
CUPID:
OR,
When shall I my True-Love have?
All young-men must to Cupids power submit,
Courage and Wisdom, Vertue too, & Wit:
None can his mighty power & charms withstand
He, like young Beauty, always will Command:
And here young maidens easily may find,
How apt young-men are to be true & kind
Such constancy in them could scarce be found
Should men go search the Universe all round.
To an Excellent New Tune, Sung at the COURT.
This may be Printed, R.P.

CLoes Face is Heav'n to me,
Like the Morning-Light we see;
And the Beauty of her Eye,
Bright and lovely, like the Sky:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

Will young Love a Tyrant be?
Make me doat on Cruelty:
Why doth sullen Fate confine
Me to one that is not mine?
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

Had I Lov'd as others do,
Onely for an hour or two,
Then there had a Reason bin,
I should suffer for my Sin:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

Love (thou know'st) with what a flame,
I adore young Cloes Name:
Let me then thy pitty find,
Shoot a Dart and change her mind:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

All her Beauties do entice,
Though the Nymph be cold as Ice,
Rosie-Lips and Lilly-Skin,
All we gaze on, Charm and win:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

On her gentle Downy Breast,
Let a sighing Lover rest,
Twin'd within those tender Arms,
Fetter'd by those pleasing Charms:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

Let my Love with joys be Crown'd,
You that with a Glance can Wound,
With a Melting Kiss restore,
Your young Love that sigh'd before:
Cl[o]e, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

Thus you'l show your power and skill,
Able both to Save and Kill,
But to Kill has always bin
Held a most Notorious Sin:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

In sweet Groves we'l always dwell,
With more joys than tongue can tell,
There the Wanton then we'l play,
Steal each others heart away:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

You I love (by Jove) I do,
More then all things here below,
With a Passion full as great,
As e're Creature fancied yet:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.

Bid the Miser leave his Ore,
Bid the Wretched sigh no more:
Bid the Old be Young again,
Bid young Maids ne'r think of Men:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart:

Love's not a thing of Chance, but Fate,
That makes me Love, that makes you hate;
Then if you be false or true,
Love I must, and none but you:
Cloe, since my Heav'n thou art,
Ease and cure my wounded heart.


Printed for J. Back, at the Black-Boy on Lond[on-]B[ri]d[ge.]

View Raw XML