The Obsequy of fair Phillida With the Shepherds and Nymphs lamentation for her loss.  
To a new Court Tune.  
 

THe fairest Nymph that valleys  
Or Mountains ever bred,  
The shepherd's joy,  
So beautiful and coy,  
Fair Phillida is dead;  
On whom they oft have tended,  
And caroled on the Plains  
And for her sake  
Sweet Roundelays did make,  
Admired by rural Swains:  
But cruel Fates the beauties envying  
Of this blooming Rose,  
So ready to disclose,  
With a frost unkindly  
Nipped the bud untimely,  
So away her glory goes.   

The Sheep for woe go bleating,  
That they their Goddess miss,  
And sable Ewes,  
By their mournful shows,  
Her absence, cause of this;  
The Nymphs leave off their dancing,  
Pan's Pipe of joy is cleft;  
For great's his grief,  
He shuneth all relief,  
Since she from him is reft.  
Come, fatal Sisters, leave there your spooles  
Leave mourning altogether,  
That made this flower to whither:  
Let envy, that foul Vipresse,  
Put on a wreath of Cypress,  
Singing sad Dirges altogether.   

Diana was chief mourner,  
At these sad Obsequies,  
Who with her train  
Went tripping o'er the Plains,  
Singing doleful Elegies:  
Menalchus and Amintas,  
And many Shepherds more,  
With mournful Verse,  
Did all attend her Hearse,  
And in sable sadly go:  
Flora, the Gods that used to beautify  
Fair Phillis lovely bowers,  
With sweet fragrant flowers,  
Now her grave adorned,  
And with flowers mourned.  
Tears thereon in vain she pours.   

Venus' alone triumphed,  
To see this dismal day,  
Who did despair,  
That Phillida the fair  
Her laws would ne'er obey.  
The blinded boy his arrows  
And Darts were vainly spent:  
Her heart, alas,  
Inpenetrable was,  
And to love would ne'er assent:  
At which affront Citharea repined,  
'Cause death with his Dart,  
Had pierced her tender heart:  
Bat her noble spirit  
Doth such joys inherit,  
Which from her shall ne'er departed.    

A Ballad Entitled, The Old Man's Complaint against his 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 & 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 wont to sit  
chief at the table's 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 disgra●e  
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 her●  
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 & day,  
With woe he waxed faint,  
but mark what I shall say.  
This rich and dainty pair,  
the youngman and his wife,  
Tho' 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.  
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 my health I had,  
tho' I were ne'er so poor,  
I cared not tho' 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.  
 thirteen years was 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,  
lives on their children's hand.   

Printed by and for A.M. and sold by the Booksellers of London.