%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> The dying teares of a true Lover forsaken, made upon / his Death-bed the houre before his Death. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1648-1648 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 10/16/2018 36063

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

R188997 1 Come live with me Come Live with Me and Be My Love Come Live With Me THose gentle hearts which true love crave, / Where true love can no harbour have, COme young Lasses and listen well, / Unto the Tale that I shall tell, Manchester Central Library Blackletter Ballads Editor none none none none Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 2: 9 The dying teares of a true Lover forsaken, made upon / his Death-bed the houre before his Death. The dying tears of a true Lover forsaken, made upon his Death-bed the hour before his Death. 1648-1648 E. Wright

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction / health alcohol Americas animals / nature Bible / biblical figures buildings / architecture catastrophe children class clothing / appearance country / nation crime death economics / commerce entertainments family Featured folklore gender holidays / seasons infidelity labor / craft law London love maritime marriage military / war monstrosity mythology / Classical news nobility / court politics / government procreation punishment race / ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious groups royalty rural life servitude sex / sexuality supernatural / magic travel trickery / deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth / age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 10/16/2018 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 10/16/2018 3:19:02 PM XBallad Raychawdhuri, Anita Created XML Version of Ballad 10/16/2018 3:19:02 PM Transcription Supervisor McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/16/2018 3:19:02 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Levinson-Emley, Rachel Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/16/2018 3:19:02 PM Transcriptionist Two Adkison, Katie Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/16/2018 3:19:02 PM Transcriptionist One McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/23/2018 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 7/23/2018 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 2/7/2017 Checker Rachel LevinsonEmley Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 2/7/2017 Checker Rachel LevinsonEmley Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 11/17/2016 Bibliographer Rachel LevinsonEmley Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created 11/17/2016 Checker Rachel LevinsonEmley Edited Ballad Catalogue Record
<seg n="1" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">The dying teares of a true Lover forsaken, made upon</hi></seg> <seg n="2" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">his Death-bed the houre before his Death.</hi></seg> <lb/> <seg n="3" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">To the tune of, <hi rend="bold">Come live with me.</hi></hi></seg>
THose gentle hearts which true love crave, Where true love can no harbour have, From shedding teares cannot refraine, But mourne with me that lov'd in vaine. Sore sick for love, sore sick in mind, Come gentle death my life unwind, For Cupids shaft and golden Bow, Now seek my joyes to overthrow. Upon my death-bed I have pend, This story of my dolefull end. Vain world behold, I dye, I dye, Here murthered by loves crueltie. O Sara Hill thou art the Wight, That turn'd my joy to sharp despight, Thou art the causer of my death, Farewell false Love, farewell fraile breath. Be warn'd young wantons by my fall, In love there is no truth at all, Though in love you live untrue, There be some Maids as false as you. Her beautie dazled so mine eyes, That in her brest my heart still lyes, I lov'd her, but she lov'd not me, Wherefore behold I dye, I dye. O cursed eyes, why did you gaze [?]n her faire and flattering face? [Wh]erefore did mine eyes enfold, [?]am'd of such unconstant mould? [?]nding sheet [?]
That from her eyes salt teares may shed, When for her sake she sees me dead. In outward shew we joyned hands, And vow'd to liv'd in wedlock Bands, But she unkind hath me dispis'd, And broke my heart so highly priz'd. O Lord, what griefe doe they sustaine, Which live despis'd, and love in vaine? But Lord, how well are they apaid, Who hap to chuse a constant Maid? There is no living wight that knowes, The pining paines and endlesse woes, That we forsaken Lovers bide, But such as have like torments tri'd: I needs must yeeld now life doth fade Deaths comming cannot be denay'd, Goe reach the Bible, pray to me, For that my soules true love shall be. Goe toule my Passing-Bell deare friends, For here a Lovers journey ends, But marke what fortune she shall have, When she hath closed me in grave. I doe not doubt but you shall see Her body pine in misery, And made a laughing stock to those, Who now her great unkindnesse knowes. You of the gentle Craft that be, Shew this kind favour unto me, That to the world this mournfull Song, Be chanted sweetly you among. And some of you I doe request, To beare me to my longest rest, And lay my Carkas in the ground, With ringing Bells melodious sound. To my deare Love then goe and say, Her change of mind cast me away, Bid her hard heart more constant prove, To him that next shall be her Love. With that he yeelded up his life, Where death gave end to further strife, Desiring God that sits in Heaven, His Lovers sins may be forgiven. Thus have you heard Hugh Hills good mind, Who never prov'd to Love unkind, But to his end continued true, Not changing old Love for a new.
<seg n="1" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">The Song of <hi rend="bold">Sara Hill,</hi> to the Maids of <hi rend="bold">Worcester.</hi></hi></seg> <lb/> <seg n="2" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">To the same tune.</hi></seg>
COme young Lasses and listen well, Unto the Tale that I shall tell, For unto you I will unfold, A matter worthy to be told. There was a young-man lov'd me well, A Shoomaker, his name Hugh Hill, His heart with love did burne amaine, And I seem'd to love him againe. Then were we made sure together, But I unconstant as the weather, Did him forsake I was so nice, When we in Church were asked thrice. When that he saw I was unkind, And that I had a cruell mind, For love of me he left his life, Because I would not be his wife. I never car'd what he did say, But suffered him to pine away, And when he yeelded up his breath, I quickly had forgot his death. But in my bed upon a time, As many things were in my mind, There smiling to myselfe I said, I think that I shall dye a Maid. Then many a youth I thought upon, I lov'd and fancied many a one; I hated some, yet some reserv'd, To like or leave as they deserv'd. But in the middest of my choyce, I heard a lamentable voyce, With musick pleasant to the eare, But not to me as did appeare.
For when I hearkned what 't might be, And what was cause of this melody, In at my window a voyce did cry, Hugh Hill is dead, fie Sara, fie. My conscience then accused me, Of my false heart and flattery, And evermore the voyce did cry, Goe pine thyselfe, repent and dye. Methought it was the voyce of Hugh, Of good Hugh Hill that was so true, That was so faithfull unto me, Yet I us'd him most wickedly. O there did he my faults expresse, And I the same must needs confesse, How I kill'd him with crueltie, For which I would, and cannot dye. And since that time my head is light, And all my body altered quite, My eyes are sunk into my head, Which makes me look like one that's dead. My face that was so fresh and fine, As cleare as is the Claret Wine, Is now transform'd to another hue, Both grim and loathsome to the view. My skin is withered my flesh is gone, And nothing left but skin and bone, And now I pine most dolefully, Wishing for death, but cannot dye. Therefore sweet Maids that Sutors have, Yeeld unto them that true love crave, O doe not cast a man away, Lest you yourselves goe to decay. If unto you a Young-man come, You are so fine, you'l nere have done, Untill your beautie fade away, You scorne most men you are so coy. Fie, fie, remember what you are, Doe not refuse whilst you are faire, Unto your true Loves be not coy, 'Tis good to take them while you may. As you be coy so have I beene, But see the misery I live in, That (were it not for my soules health) I could be willing to kill myselfe. Therefore faire Maids amend in time, Lest that your woes be like to mine, And pray to God to cease my griefe, Or else to rid me of my life.
FI[NIS] London Printed for E. Wright, d[welling in] Gilt[-]spur-street.