The Bleeding LOVER.
Young Men that do promise make,
In your performance be not slack.
For well you know, 'tis often so.
Ingratitude makes all things black.
To the Tune of, The
Doubting Virgin.
LOvers all come hear my Story,
which to you I shall relate,
He on whom I fix'd my Glory,
me requites with mortal hate,
In my anguish, here I languish,
wasting in my lingring pain,
I'm delected, and rejected,
yet delighted with my chain.
Love, O love, is of such power,
all my sences it confounds,
It my vitals doth devour,
all my joys in sorrow drowns:
Yet by nature, I poor creature,
ever was to love inclin'd,
Constant proving, dearly loving,
those who were to me unkind.
Now my life is near an ending,
for I feel my strength decay,
Hopes no longer are depending,
my fierce passion to allay,
Waking, sleeping, always we eying,
comforts are quite from me fled,
O 'twill pleasure when he sees me
fainting on my love-sick bed.
Surely he must needs be troubled,
my condition for to see,
And his sorrows will be doubled,
at my sad perplexitee:
When I'm lying fainting, dying,
on his name I'le surely call,
Oft repeating, and relating,
that he was the cause of all.
Down my cheeks when tears do trickle,
freely flowing from mine eyes,
It will trouble him a little,
that my love he did despise:
Unrelieved, being grieved,
to himself he thus will say,
O deceitful and ungrateful,
then hast cast a maid away.
In my tomb I'le have inserted,
here lyes one that was forlorn,
By her lover quite deserted,
which did cause her for to mourn:
Broken hearted, she departed,
that in love did all excell,
Then the fainted, and lamented,
saying cruel Love farewel.
Thou shalt get but little by it,
wherefor
[...] thou dost go,
Thou shalt never be at quiet,
but opprest with care and woe:
I will follow, through each hollow,
where thou goest thy self to hide,
I'le come to thee, and pursue thee,
saying 'twas for thee I dy'd.
In thy dreams I will affright thee,
and appear in ugly shape,
Care and sorrow shall betide thee,
there's no hope for to escape:
You misused, and abused
one that lov'd you too too dear,
Pray now mind it, you shall find it,
you shall ne're be quiet here.
With sighs & grounds I'le fill thine ears too,
in the middle of the night,
Which shall much encrease thy fears too,
and thy treacherous soul affright:
I for ever will endeavour,
for to be a plague to thee,
Twill be pleasure beyond measure,
to encrease thy misery.
False young-men that hear this ditty,
and to royalty pretend,
Of poor maidens take some pitty,
unto them some comfort lend:
Maids forsaken, are o're-taken,
with such dreadful mortal pain,
Can't be cured, nor endured,
so by Love are often stain.
Printed for J. Clarke, W. Chackeray, and C. Passenger.