The deceased 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 & gay  
A pleasant Bower I espied,  
Standing hard by a River side:  
And in't a Maiden I heard cry,  
Alas there's none ere loved like I.   

I couched close to hear her moan,  
With many a sigh and heavy groan,  
And wished that I had been the wight  
That might have bred her hearts delight  
But these were all the words that she  
Did still repeat, none love's like me.   

Then round the Meadows did she walk  
Catching each Flower by the stalk,  
Such as within the Meadows grew,  
As Dead-mans-thumb & Hare-bel 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 loud like me.    

The little Larke-foot, sheed not pass,  
Nor yet the flowers of Three lewd grass  
With Milkmaids Hunny-suckles phrase  
The Crowsfoot, nor the yellow Crayse,  
And as she plucked them still cried she,  

Alas there's none ere lou●d 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 love's like me.    

The flowers of the sweetest scent,  
She bond 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 El●zium I shall sleep,  
when thou with peiurd soul shalt weep:  
Who when they lived did like to thee,  
That loved there love's 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 her 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 by the Assigns of Thomas Symcocke.   

The Faithless Lover.  
To the same Tune.  
 

When I had seen this Virgin's end,  
I sorrowed as became a friend,  
And wept to see that such a maid,  
Should be by faithless love betrayed,  
But woe (I fear) will come to thee,  
That was not true in love as she.   

The Birds did cease their harmony,  
The harmless Lambs did seem to cry:  
The Flowers they did hang their head,  
The Flower of Maidens being dead,  
Whose life by death is now set free.  
And none did love more dear than she.   

The Bubbling Brooks did seem to moon  
And Echo from the vales did groan:  
Diana's Nymphs did ring her knell,  
And to their Queen the same did tell:  
Who vowed by her chastity  
That none should take revenge but she.   

When as I saw her corpses were cold,  
I to her lover went and told,  
What chance unto this Maid befell,  
Who said, In glad she sped so well,  
D'ée think that I so fond would be  
To love no Maid but only she:   

I was not made for her alone,  
I take delight to hear them moon:  
When one is gone I will have more.  
That man is rich that hath most store:  
I bondage hate I must live free,  
And not be tied to such as she.   

O Sir remember then (quoth I)  
The power of heavens all seeing eye,  
Who doth remember vows for got,  
Though you deny you know it not:  
Call you to mind this maiden free,  
the which was wronged by none but thee   

Quoth he I have a love more fair  
Besides she is her Father's heir:  
A honey Lass doth please my mind,  
That unto me is wondrous kind:  
Her will I love and none but she,  
Who welcome still shall be to me.   

False minded man that so would prove  
Disloyal to thy dearest Love:  
Who at her death for thee did pray,  
And wished thee many happy day.  
I would my Love would but love me,  
Even half so well as she lou●d thee.   

Fair Maidens will example take,  
Young men will curse thee for her sake:  
They'll stop their ears unto our plaints,  
And call us devils seeming Saints:  
They'll say to day that we are kind,  
To morrow in another mind.   
FINIS.   

Printed by the Assigns of Thomas Symcocke.