The diseased Maiden Lover. Being a pleasant new court Song:  
To an excellent new tune, Or to be sung to the tune of Bonny Nell.  
 

AS I went forth one Summer's day,  
To view the Meadows fresh and gay,  
A pleasant Bower I espied,  
Standing hard by a River's side:  
and in't I heard a Maiden cry,  
alas, there's none ere loved like I.   

I couched close to hear her moan,  
With many a heavy groan,  
And wished that I had been the wight,  
That might have bred her heart's delight,  
but these were all the words that she,  
did still repeat, none loves like me.   

Then round the Meadows did she walk,  
Catching each flower by the stalk,  
Such as within the Meadows grew,  
As Deadman's thumb, and Harebell blue:  
and as she plucked them, still cried she,  
alas, there's none ere loved like me.   

A bed therein she made to lie:  
Of fine green things that grew fast by,  
Of Poplers, and of Willow leaves,  
Of Sicamore and Flaggy sheaves:  
and as she plucked them, still cried she,  
alas, there's none ere loved like me.   

The little Lark-foote she'd not pass,  
Nor yet the flowers of Three-leaued grass,  
With Milkemayds' Honey Succles phrase,  
The Crow's foot, nor the yellow Crayse,  
and as she plucked them, still cried she,  
alas, there's none ere loved like me.   

The pretty Daisy which doth show  
Her love to Phoebus, bred her woe,  
Who joys to see his cheerful face,  
And mourns when he is not in place,  
alack, alack, alack, quoth she,  
there's none that ever loved like me.   

The Flowers of the sweetest sent,  
She bound them round with knotted Bent,  
And as she laid them still in bands,  
She wept, she wailed, and wrung her hands,  
alas, alas, alas, quoth she,  
there's none that ever loved like me.   

False man, quoth she, forgive thee heaven,  
As I do wish my sins forgiven,  
In blessed Elysium I shall sleep,  
When thou with perjured souls shalt weep  
who when they lived, did like to thee,  
that loved their Loves as thou dost me.   

When she had filled her Apron full,  
Of such sweet Flowers as she could cull,  
The green leaves served her for a Bed,  
The Flowers pillows for her head,  
Then down she lay, ne'er more did speak,  
alas with love her heart did break.   
FINIS.   

Printed at London for I. Wright.