Love's Lunacy. Or, Mad Bess' Fegary.  

Declaring her sorrow, care and moan,  
Which may cause many a sigh and groan:  
A Youngman did this Maid some wrong,  
Wherefore she writ this mournful Song.   
To the Tune of, The mad man's Morris.  
 


Poor Bess, mad Bess, so they call me,  
I'm metamorphosed;  
Strange sights and visions I do see,  
by Furies I am led:  
Tom was the cause of all my woe,  
to him I loudly cry,  
My love to him there's none doth know,  
yet here he lets me lie.   

This Bethlem is a place of torment,  
here's's fearful notes still sounding;  
Here minds are filled with discontent,  
and terrors still abounding.  
Some shake their chains in woeful wise,  
some swear, some curse, some roaring,  
Some shrieking out with fearful cries,  
and some their clothes are tearing.   

O cursed Allecto that fierce fury,  
Megara, Tisiphone!  
Are governor's of my late glory;  
wise Pa●las me doth shun:  
My gems, my sewels and my earing,  
are turned to ●●on fetters;  
They now do serve for others wear,  
such as are now my betters.   

Orcadeses Fairies now do lead me,  
o'er mountains, hills and valleys,  
Naiades doth through waters drive me,  
and Brizo with me dallies:  
O sometimes I dream of my Tom,  
then with my folded arms  
I him embrace, saying welcome,  
but waking breeds my harms.   

Adrastea now robbeth me,  
of all my wit and patience,  
Angarona will not receive me,  
to live in peace and silence:  
My mind runs on my fine apparel,  
which once did fit my wearing:  
Then with myself I seem to quarrel,  
my rags I fall to tearing.   

O once I was as fair as Briseis,  
and chaste as was Cassandra,  
But living void of joy and blisses,  
I'm Hero to Leander:  
For as chaste Hero herself drowned,  
so I am drowned in sorrow;  
The Fates on me hath sorely frowned,  
no patience I can borrow.    

The second part, To the same tune.  
 

I'M like to fair Philomela,  
by Tereus basely ravished;  
Yet when his burning lust did thaw,  
he closely her imprisoned;  
And even so I'm quite deflowered  
by Tom of all my senses;  
My love and means he hath devowred,  
making no recompenses.   

You Gods and all you Goddesses,  
pray listen to my mourning,  
And grace me with this happiness,  
to see my Toms returning.  
Or if you will not grant me this,  
to send him hither to me,  
Send me but word whereas he is,  
and Tom, I'll come unto thee.   

If that he be in God Mars' train,  
where armour brightly glisters;  
Be sure I'll fetch him home again,  
in spite of the three Sisters:  
Or if he be in Venus' Court,  
where Cupid shoots his arrows:  
I'll fetch him thence from all his sport,  
only to ease my sorrows.   

Stay, who comes here? 'tis the sister's three,  
which lately I did mention,  
I doubt they come to chide with me  
and hinder my intention.  
Clotho brings wool, Lachesis doth spin,  
Atropos cuts asunder;  
Now I'll away and not be seen,  
each one is my Commander.   

You Maids and Virgins fair and pure  
note well my careful calling,  
You cannot think what I endure,  
Cupid hath caused my falling:   

When I was as now many be.  
free from God Cupid's arrows,  
I would have smiled at any she,  
that should tell me of sorrows.   

My lodging once was soft and easy,  
my garments silk and satin;  
Now in a lock of straw I lie,  
this is a woeful patten:  
My diet once was choice and fine,  
all which did not content me;  
Now I drink water, once good wine  
was naught unless 'twere sent me.   

Thus pride and love together joined  
to work my utter ruin;  
They wrought my discontent in mind,  
which causes my undoing.  
And thus good people all adieu,  
perhaps you ne'er may see me,  
Farewell I bid once more to you,  
I'm grieved sore believe me.   

But if you chance once more to come,  
bring tidings from my dearest,  
By all means bring my true love Tom,  
he's welcom'st when he's nearest:  
The day is past, and night is come,  
and here comes our commander;  
hée'l lock me into a dark room,  
'tis sorrow's chiefest Chamber.    
FINIS.  
Richard Climsull.   

AT LONDON,  
Printed for john Wright the younger, and are to be sold at the upper end of the Old-Bayley.