The Bleeding LOVER.  
Young Men that do promise make,  
In your performance be not slack.  
For well you know, 'tis often so.  
Ingratitude makes all things black.  
To the Tune of, The Doubting Virgin.  
 
 

Lover's all come hear my Story,  
which to you I shall relate,  
He on whom I fixed my Glory,  
me requites with mortal hate,  
In my anguish, here I languish,  
wasting in my lingering pain,  
I'm delected, and rejected,  
yet delighted with my chain.   

Love, O love, is of such power,  
all my senses it confounds,  
It my vitals doth devour,  
all my joys in sorrow drowns:  
Yet by nature, I poor creature,  
ever was to love inclined,  
Constant proving, dearly loving,  
those who were to me unkind.   

Now my life is near an ending,  
for I feel my strength decay,  
Hopes no longer are depending,  
my fierce passion to allay,  
Waking, sleeping, always we eyeing,  
comforts are quite from me fled,  
O 'twill pleasure when he sees me  
fainting on my lovesick bed.   
 
 
 

Surely he must needs be troubled,  
my condition for to see,  
And his sorrows will be doubled,  
at my sad perplexitee:  
When I'm lying fainting, dying,  
on his name I'll surely call,  
Oft repeating, and relating,  
that he was the cause of all.   

Down my cheeks when tears do trickle,  
freely flowing from mine eyes,  
It will trouble him a little,  
that my love he did despise:  
Unrelieved, being grieved,  
to himself he thus will say,  
O deceitful and ungrateful,  
than hast cast a maid away.   

In my tomb I'll have inserted,  
here lies one that was forlorn,  
By her lover quite deserted,  
which did cause her for to mourn:  
Broken hearted, she departed,  
that in love did all excel,  
Then the fainted, and lamented,  
saying cruel Love farewel.   

Thou shalt get but little by it,  
wherefor 〈◊〉 thou dost go,  
Thou shalt never be at quiet,  
but oppressed with care and woe:  
I will follow, through each hollow,  
where thou goest thyself to hide,  
I'll come to thee, and pursue thee,  
saying 'twas for thee I died.   

In thy dreams I will affright thee,  
and appear in ugly shape,  
Care and sorrow shall betid thee,  
there's no hope for to escape:  
You misused, and abused  
one that loved you too too dear,  
Pray now mind it, you shall find it,  
you shall ne'er be quiet here.   

With sighs & grounds I'll fill thine ears too,  
in the middle of the night,  
Which shall much increase thy fears too,  
and thy treacherous soul affright:  
I for ever will endeavour,  
for to be a plague to thee,  
'twill be pleasure beyond measure,  
to increase thy misery.   

False youngmen that hear this ditty,  
and to royalty pretend,  
Of poor maidens take some pity,  
unto them some comfort lend:  
Maids forsaken, are o'ertaken,  
with such dreadful mortal pain,  
Can't be cured, nor endured,  
so by Love are often stain.    

Printed for J. Clarke, W. Chackeray, and C. Passenger.