The dying youngman, and the obdurate Maid,  
OR, A strange and wonderful Relation of a youngman that died for love about the midst of this present June, with the maid's perplexity for loss of her love, and how likely she is to die for the same cause worthy the view of all young men and Maids both in Country and City, delightful to all, hurtful to none.  
To the Tune of, Fancies phoenix.  

 

COme you young men and maidens fair  
For unto you I will now declare,  
And likewise I will hear unfold,  
As true a tale as er● was told,  
Of a young man that oft did cry,  

Sweet grant me love or else I die.    

Fair Maids I pray you lend an ear,  
And you the truth thereof shall hear,  
And of these times come take a view,  
No damage thereby will ensue,  
Admit not your love too oft to cry,  

Sweet yield relief or else I die.    The young man's Complaint. 

Dear love when first I cast mine eye,  
Upon thy feature and beauty  
My heart did burn in such a flame,  
That I could never quench the same,  
And doth continue constantly,  

Sweet yield Relief or else I die.    Maid's reply. 

King Sir your mind I will make known,  
The less you●r mine the more your own,  
For on that side I cannot hear,  
Yet thank you kindly for your fear,  
No cause at all I can espy,  

For to give credit to your cry.    Man. 

Dear Love thou lodgest in my heart,  
And from thence shall ne'er depart,  
Dread Cupit hath wounded me so,  
Then do not prove my mortal foe,  
Which forceth me inceasantly,  

To cry sweet love me or I die,    Maid. 

Sweet Sir your suit is all in vain,  
Without a cause you do complain,  
young men I know can counterfeit  
And seem to be lovers complete  
Us silly Maidens for to try,  

But we their actions do defy.    Man. 

Dear love do not obdurate prove,  
But this my woe and grief remove,  
And ease me now that am oppressed,  
So that I may have peace and rest,  
For in thy love my heart doth fry,  

Sweet yield relief or else I die,    Maid. 

Sir to me you a stranger are,  
Then wherefore for me should you care,  
Some thing to mitigate your pain,  
Come home I will you entertain,  
If I may prove the remedy,  

You for love shall never die.    Man. 

Then receive this kiss my dear,  
That I give the in token here,  
I love thee dearer than my life,  
Intending to make thee my wife  
Ten thousand times happy am I,  

That thou lovest me assuredly.     

The second part,  
To the same Tune  
 
 

HE kept his time and to her came  
But she proved a scornfu● dame,  
Her entertainment was harsh and course  
And her reproaches ten times worse,  
Farewell dear heart thus did he cry,  

'tis for thy love that I must die.    

Straight home he came and went to bed,  
Whereupon fancies still he fed,  
And for twelve days he there did lie,  
In grievous woe and misery,  
And ever and anon did cry,  

'tis for thy love that I must die.    
Four lines apiece of the four following verses, was found written in his own trunk, since his departure.  His Complaint. 

THy heart is harder far than flint,  
And will not suffer Cupits plint,  
But vears his arrows back to Jove,  
Hard hearted thou that canst not love,  
My life is now in jeopardy,  

'tis for thy love that I must die.    

And when I die true lovers mourn,  
Deck all your heads with withered corn,  
Wear on each hand a sable glove,  
To testify I died for love,  
Proclaim it in the strées and cry,  

'twas for her love that I did die.    

Then bear me softly by her door,  
And with your mourning breads deplore,  
Cry loud look down you gods above,  
On her that kills him for her love,  
To all the world go testify,  

'twas for her love that I did die.    

Last build my Tomb of lovers bones,  
Laid round about with marble stones,  
My Schoshon being a Venus Dove  
To signify I died for love,  
For whilst I live in flames I fry,  

And so farewell lo here I die.    

immediately in came the Maid,  
His Cofin made heart to dread,  
And to inquire who there did die,  
That within that house did lie,  
She being told wept bitterly,  

And said I do deserve to die.    

And since that hour continues still,  
Beyond any physician's skill,  
Her sorrows daily do increase,  
Her burning favours do not cease,  
She frets and grieves unceasantly,  

Confessing she deserves to die.    

Young men and maids that love intend,  
These lines unto you I commend,  
To those that love you prove most true,  
And do not change them fo● a n●w,  
Give ear to those that truth doth tell,  

And so I bid you all farewell.      

London, Printed for John Andrews, at the White-Lyon near money-corner.