The Bride's Burial. To the tune of the Ladies Fall.  

COme mourn, come mourn with me  
you loyal lovers all,  
Lament my loss in weeds of woe,  
whom griping grief doth thrall,  
Like to the dropping vine,  
cut down by gardener's knife,  
Even so my heart with sorrow slain,  
doth bleed for my sweet wife.   

By Death (that grisly Ghost)  
my turtle Dove is slain:  
And I am lost unhappy man,  
to spend my days in pain:  
Her beauty late so bright,  
like Roses in their prime,  
Is wasted like the mountain's snow,  
by force of Phoebus' shine.   

Her fair red coloured lips,  
now pale and wan, her eyes  
That late did shine like crystal stars,  
alas her light it dies:  
Her pretty lily hands,  
with fingers long and small,  
In colour lie like earthly clay,  
yea cold and stiff withal.   

When as the morning grey,  
her golden gate had spread,  
And that the glistering sun arose,  
forth from fair Th●tis bed:  
Then did my love awake,  
most like a lily flower,  
And as the lovely Queen of heaven,  
so shined she in her bower.   

Attired she was then,  
like 〈◊〉 in her pride,  
As fair as brave Diana's Nymphs,  
so looked my lovely Bride,  
And as fair Helen's face,  
gave Grecian Dames the lurch,  
So did my dear exceed in sight,  
all Virgins in the Church.   

When we had knit the knot,  
of holy wedlock's band:  
Like Alabaster joined to jet,  
so stood we hand in hand:  
Then lo a chilling cold,  
struck every vital part;  
And griping grief like pangs of death,  
seized on my true Love's heart.   

Down in a sound she fell,  
as cold as any stone:  
Like Venus' picture lacking life,  
so was my Love brought home,  
At length arose a red,  
throughout her comely face,  
As Phoebus' beams with watery clouds  
over covered her face.   

Then with a grievous groan,  
and voice most hoarse and dry,  
Farewell quoth she my loving friends  
for I this day must die.  
The messenger of God,  
with golden Trump I see:  
With many other Angels more,  
doth sound and call for me.   

In stead of music sweet,  
go toll my passing bell:  
And with these flowers strew my grave  
that in my chamber smell:  
Strip off my Bride's array,  
my Cork-shoes from my feet,  
And gentle mother be not coy,  
to bring my winding sheet.   

My Wedding dinner dressed,  
bestow upon the poor:  
And on the hungry needy maind,  
that craveth at the door.  
In stead of Virgin's young,  
my Bridebed for to see,  
Go cause some cunning Carpente  
to make a chest for me.   

My Bride lace's of silk,  
bestowed on maidens meet,  
May fitly serve when I am dead,  
to tie my hands and feet:  
And thou my Lover true,  
my husband and my friend,  
Let me entreat thee here to stay,  
until my life doth end.   

Now leave to talk of love,  
and humbly on your knee:  
Direct your prayer unto God,  
but mourn no more for me.  
In love as we have lived,  
in love let us depart:  
And I in token of my love,  
do kiss thee with my heart.   

O stench thy bootless tears,  
thy weeping is in vain:  
I am not lost, for we in heaven,  
shall one day meet again.  
With that she turned her head,  
as one disposed to sleep,  
And like a Lamb departed life:  
while friends full sore did weep.   

Her true Love seeing this,  
did fetch a grievous groan,  
As though his heart did burst in two,  
and thus he made his moan:  
O dismal heavy day,  
a day of grief and care,  
That hath bereft the Sun so high.  
whose beams refreshed the air.   

Now woe unto the world,  
and all that therein dwell,  
O that I were with her in heaven,  
for here I live in hell:  
And now this Lover lives,  
a discontented life:  
Whose Bride was brought unto the gra●●  
a Maiden and a Wife.   

A garland fresh and fair,  
of Lilies there was made,  
In sign of her Uirginity,  
and on her Coffin laid:  
Six maidens all in white,  
did bear her to the ground,  
The Bells did ring in solemn sort,  
and made a solemn sound.   

In earth they laid her then,  
for hungry worms a prey:  
So shall the fairest face alive,  
at length be brought to clay.   
FINIS:   

London Printed for H. G●sson.