The Life of LOVE  
Let he or she, from Chains are free,  
prise high their Liberty.  
Loves a Disease, that seems to please  
yet breeds Captivity.  
To the Tune of, The Fair one let me In: Or, Busy Fame.  
This may be Printed, R. P.  
 
 

ALL you that do in Love delight,  
now mind what I relate;  
And give your judgement now aright,  
of this my cruel Fate:  
I loved one most tenderly,  
that loved not me again:  
Though I for him could freely die,  
he pays me with dsidain.   

And yet upon him I must dote,  
O what a Fool am I:  
Though yet I love him well I know't,  
'tis mere Simplicity,  
To mourn for him who laughs at me,  
i'th' midst of all my pain;  
When he should be most kind to me,  
He doth me most disdain.   

Hard hay I had in this my Choice,  
to meet one so unkind;  
Whilst others sweetly do rejoice,  
no Comfort I can find:  
But sighing waste myself away,  
and linger in my Chain;  
I pine for him both night and day,  
that doth me still disdain.   

This is unjustice to the height,  
that Reason contradicts;  
Both night and day for him to sigh  
that my poor heart afflicts:  
Oh! I had rather choose to die,  
then in this state remain,  
'Tis worse than Death assuredly,  
to meet with such disdain.   
 

WEll since I must this grief endure,  
i'll now resign my breath;  
For being past all hopes of Cure,  
I covet for my Drath:  
For I shall never quiet be,  
while I do here remain;  
Come Death and strike immediately,  
then farewell his disdain.   

Then down her Cheeks the tears did run  
and oft she wished in vain;  
For that which could not well be won,  
which much increased her pain,  
Come Death, quoth she, & Pierce my heart,  
let me no more complain;  
I long to feel thy kill dart,  
since he doth me disdain.   

The Youngman's Loving Answer.  
MY dear you're too much unkind  
against me thus to speak;  
For thou shalt see I will prove kind,  
thy heart it shall not break:  
For every tear that thou hast spent,  
I bottle up in store;  
Believe me Love, 'tis my intent,  
that thou shouldst grieve no more.   

No no, forbear to mourn for me,  
who loves thee tenderly  
I will be faithful unto thee,  
and constant till I die:  
Thou art an Angel unto me,  
'tis thee I do adore;  
In thee alone I do delight,  
then grieve for me no more.   

It pierced me through my tender heart,  
to heart thee thus complain;  
It is not in the power of Art,  
to make me thee disdain:  
My Love is spotless I protest,  
none e'er loved so before;  
My dear, I do not speak in jest,  
then grieve for me no more.   

Let this my Love a pattern be,  
to all both young and old;  
Who say, they love unfeignedly.  
but yet I dare be bold  
To say, that many do deceive,  
for scarce one in a Score,  
That say they love you may believe,  
but mind such Blades no more.    

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in Pie Corner.