An Excellent Ballad of the Mercer's Son of Midhurst, And the Cloathiers' Daughter of Guildford.  
To the Tune of, Dainty come thou to me.  
THere was a Wealthy man,  
in Sussex he did dwell,  
A Mercer by his Trade,  
as many yet can tell:  
He had a Youthful Son  
whom fancy did so move,  
He cried night and Day,  
Alack I die for love.  
Alack I die for Love,  
beauty disdaineth me,  
The Clothier's Daughter dear,  
works my extremity:  
She hath my heart in hold.  
that did most cruel prove,  
Thus cried he night and day,  
Alack, etc.  
Alack I die for Love,  
fortune so sore doth frown,  
The jewel of my heart,  
dwelleth in Guildford Town:  
There lives the lamp of life,  
for whom this pain I prove,  
Fair Phillis pity me,  
Alack, etc.  
Alack I die for love,  
and can no comfort find,  
The Clothier's Daughter dear,  
beareth too high a mind:  
Sweet beauties Paragon,  
fair Venus' silver Dove,  
Fair Phillis pity me,  
Alack, etc.  
Alack I die for Love,  
whilst thou dost laugh and smi●e,  
Let not thy pleasure be,  
true Love for to beguile:  
My life lies in your hand,  
then as it doth behoove,  
Slay not the Mercer's Son,  
Alack, etc.  
If that my beauty bright,  
doth grieve thy heart (quoth she)  
Then let the Mercer's Son,  
turn still his face from me:  
I do no man disdain,  
nor can I cruel prove,  
My heart must still say nay,  
Where my heart cannot love.  
Where my heart cannot love,  
lover's all must I shun,  
The Clothier's Daughter thus,  
answered the Mercer's Son:  
I bear no lofy mind,  
yet pity cannot move,  
My mind to fancy him,  
where, etc.  
Where my heart cannot love,  
I must his love deny,  
Although I laugh and smile,  
yet falsehood I defy:  
Thou art too fond a man,  
life danger thus to prove,  
I'll not wed good friend John,  
where my heart cannot love.  
What good can there befall,  
to that new married Wife,  
Where goods and wealth is small  
want causeth deadly strife:  
But where is wealth at will,  
experience oft doth prove,  
Though love at first is small,  
yet goods increaseth love.  
Yet goods increaseth love,  
and I will never wed,  
But were the Key of Gold  
opens the door to Bed:  
For she may merry be,  
what chance soever hap,  
Where bags of money comes  
tumbling within her lap.  
Tumpling within her lap,  
whilst she her Gold doth tell,  
With such a husband Sir,  
I do delight to dwell,  
Were he young, were he old,  
deformed or fair in show,  
My pleasure still should be,  
where pleasure still doth flow.  
Where pleasure still doth flow,  
is that your mind (quoth he)  
My Father will bestow  
as much as comes to thee:  
Hadst thou five hundred pound,  
five hundred more beside,  
My Father will bestow:  
If thou wilt be my Bride.  
If thou wilt be my Bride,  
thus much I understand,  
My Father will give me,  
his house and eke his Land;  
So while that he doth live,  
with us he may remain,  
What says my heart's delight,  
is this a bargain plain?  
This is a bargain plain,  
(quoth she) I am content,  
So he perform this thing,  
I give thee my consent,  
And I will merry be,  
my mind shall not remove,  
Thou shalt be my sweetheart,  
i'll be thy own true love.  
I'll be thy own true love,  
then make no more delay,  
I greatly long to see  
our marriage happy day.  
To Midhurst in all haste,  
goeth the Mercer's Son,  
He told his Father dear,  
his true love he had won.  
The old man hearing this,  
conveyed out of hand,  
Assurance to his Son,  
of all his house and Land,  
When he had done this deed,  
he wept most bitterly,  
Saying, my dearest Son,  
thou must be good to me:  
Well worth two hundred pound,  
this morning was I known,  
But the clothes of my back  
now nothing is my own:  
And all this I have done,  
dear Son to pleasure thee,  
Think on thy Father's love,  
and deal thou well with me,  
Dear Father (quoth the Son)  
if I do not do so,  
God pour upon my head,  
hot vengeance, grief and woe,  
The youngman wedded was,  
to his fair lovely Bride,  
But wondrous grief, and woe:  
thereof there did betid.  
As after you shall hear,  
in the old man's Complaint,  
A tale of greater grief,  
cannot your heart attain  
A warning by this thing,  
all men may understand,  
Lest they do come to live,  
under their children's hand.  
FINIS.   

A Ballad, Entitled, The Old Man's Complaint against hi● Wretched Son, who to Advance his Marriage, did undo himself.  
To the same Tune.  
 
ALL you that Fathers be,  
look on my misery,  
Let not affection fond,  
work your extremity,  
For to advance my Son,  
in Marriage wealthily,  
I have myself undone,  
without all remedy,  
I that was wont to live  
uncontrolled any way,  
With many checks and taunts,  
am grieved every day:  
Alack and woe is me,  
I that might late command,  
Cannot have a bit of Bread,  
but at my children's hand.  
While I was want to sit,  
chief at the Tables end,  
Now like a Servant slave,  
must I on them attend,  
I must not come in place  
where their friends merry be  
Lest I should my Son disgrace,  
with my unreverency,  
My coughing in the night,  
offends my Daughter-in-Law,  
My deafness and ill sight,  
doth much disliking draw,  
Fie on this doting fool,  
this crooked Churl (quoth she)  
The Chimney-corner still,  
must with him troubled be,  
I must rise from my Chair,  
to give my Children place,  
I must speak Servants fair,  
this is my woeful case.  
Unto their friends they tell,  
(I must not say they lie)  
That they do keep me here,  
even of mere Charity.  
When I am sick in bed,  
they will not come me nigh,  
Each day they wish me dead,  
yet say i'll never die:  
O Lord an't be thy will,  
look on my woeful case,  
No honest man before,  
ever took such disgrace.  
This was the Old man's plaint  
every night and day,  
With woe he waxed faint,  
but mark what I shall say.  
This rich and dainty pair,  
the youngman and his Wife,  
Though clogged with Golden Coin,  
yet led a grievous life.  
Seven years they married were,  
and yet in all that space,  
God sent them ne'er an Heir,  
their Riches to embrace:  
Thus did their sorrow breed,  
joy was from them exiled,  
Quoth she, a hundred pound,  
would I give for a Child:  
To have a joyful Child,  
of my own body born,  
Full oft I am reviled,  
of this my barren Womb:  
Much Physic did she take,  
to make a fruitful soil,  
And with access thereof,  
her body she did spoil.  
Full of grief full of pain,  
full of each grew she then,  
That she cries out amain,  
seek for some cunning men.  
That I my health may have,  
I will no money spare,  
But that which she did crave,  
never fell to her share.  
Alack, alack, she said,  
what torments I live in,  
How well are they paid,  
that truly ease can win:  
So that I had my health,  
and from this pain was free,  
I would give all my wealth,  
that Blessed day to see▪  
O that I my health had,  
though I were ne'er so poor,  
I cared not though I went,  
begging from door to door:  
Fie on this muck, quoth she,  
it cannot pleasure me,  
In this my woeful case,  
and great extremity.  
Thus lived she long in pain,  
all comfort from her fled,  
She strangled at the last  
herself within the bed.  
Her Husband full of grief,  
consumed woefully,  
His body pined away,  
suddenly he did die:  
ere thirteen years were passed,  
died he without a will,  
And by this means at last,  
the old man living still;  
Enjoyed his Land at last,  
after much misery,  
Many years after that,  
lived he most happily.  
Far richer than before,  
by this means was he known:  
He helped the sick and sore,  
the poor man overthrown.  
But this was all his Song,  
let all men understand,  
Those Parents are accursed,  
live on their children's hand.   

Printed for and Sold by W. Thackeray, at the Angel in Duck Lane, J. M. and A. M.