THE True Lover's Tragedy: Being an Incomparable Ballad of a Gentleman and his Lady, That both Killed themselvels for Love, under the disguised Names of Philander and Phillis.  

Phillis Philanders scattered Garments finds,  
And thinks him slain, for which with Fate she joins,  
And with her Fatal Poniard striketh deep,  
As Life no longer can its station keep,  
The Crimsoe Streams so fast flowed from her Veins,  
Yet Dying, of her Love's dear loss complains:  
No sooner Death had closed up her Starry eyes,  
But her returned Philander her espies;  
And finding that for him she lost her breath,  
He kills himself, and crowns his Love with death.   
To the Tune of, Ab Cruel Bloody Fate.  
 

AH Cruel Bloody Fate,  
what canst thou now do more?  
Alas 'tis now too late,  
Philander to Restore;  
Why should the Heavenly powers pedswade,  
Poor Mortals to believe,  
That they guard us here,  
And reward us there,  
Yet all our joys deceive.   

Her Poniard than she took,  
and held it in her hand,  
Then with a dying look,  
cried thus I Fate command:  
Philander! ah my Love I come,  
to meet the shade below;  
Ah! I come she cried,  
with a wound so wide,  
There needs no second blow.   

Then Purple Waves of Blood,  
ran streaming down the floor,  
Unmoved she saw the Flood,  
and blessed her dying hour:  
Philander, and Philander still,  
the bleeding Phillis cried,  
She wept a while,  
and forced a smile,  
then closed her Eyes and died.   

Upon the Blushing Ground,  
stained with her Virgin blood,  
She lay in Death's deep Swoon,  
close by the murmuring Flood:  
Which for the lovely Phillis sake,  
complaned of cruel late,  
Which had caused such care,  
as had wrought despair,  
I weep it to relate.   
 

When lo Philander came,  
with joy to seek his Love,  
And her dear promise claim,  
while Moan-beams from above,  
Did twincle through the thickest shade,  
and gild the flowery plain,  
When he espys,  
And ah Phillis cries  
(not thinking she was slain)   

Arise, arise from Earth,  
shake off this dull repose,  
Phillis my only mirth,  
to thee Philander bows,  
Sooner I would have come to thee,  
had not a Lion stayed,  
My course to fight,  
For which exploit,  
he Lifeless now is made.   

Ah me what's this! she's cold,  
ye Gods quite breathless too,  
O Death durst thou enfold,  
this beauties not thy due:  
Alas? O cruel Fate he cried,  
by her own hand 'tis well  
Oh the fatal blow,  
That did overthrow,  
by Heavens for me she fell.   

Behold my Garments died  
in Phillis precious blood,  
Which falling from my side,  
made her suppose me dead:  
And therefore fell for love of me,  
ah cruel destiny.  
And shall Philander  
Live to wander,  
No by the Powers i'll die?   

I come my Phillis now,  
prepare, for in thy Arms,  
I will perform my vow,  
a sleep like Death now charms:  
These Cyprus' wreaths our Crowns shall be  
we'll Triumph over death,  
From thy fair lip,  
I'll Nectar Sip,  
Then with my latest breath.   

With that his Fatal Sword,  
he plunged in his breast,  
and sighed with dying words,  
Oh now I am at rest,  
Now Phillis now for ever mine,  
Fate now no more shall part,  
Then through the Wound,  
Life passage found,  
And left the Lover's Heart.   
FINIS.   

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden Ball, near West-Smithfield.