The Tormented Lovers.  
Maidens Lament their present State,  
And count they meet with rigid Fate;  
But e'er they will their minds explain,  
They'll die of their Tormenting Pain.  
To a pleasant Playhouse Tune, called, Oh Love! if e'er thou'lt ease a Heart.  
 

O Love if e'er thou'lt ease a Heart,  
that owns thy power Divine,  
That Bleeds with thy too cruel Dart;  
Yea, Burns with never ceasing smart;  
take pity now on mine:  
Beneath the shades, I fainting lie;  
Ten-Thousand times I wish to die;  
Yet when I find cold Death draw nigh,  
I grieve to lose my pleasing pain,  
and call my Wishes back again.   

Thus I sat musing all alone,  
in the shady myrtle Grove,  
As to myself, I made a moan,  
And every Echo gave a Groan;  
came by the Man I Loved.  
Oh! How I strove, my Griefs to hide,  
I Panted, Sighed, and almost Died,  
Yet did each tattling Echo chide;  
for fear some Breath of moving Air,  
should to his Ears my Sorrows bear.   

And ●ow you Powers, I die to gain,  
but one poor parting Kiss;  
Yet will endure this deadly pain,  
ere I'll one Wish or Thought retain,  
that Honour thinks amiss.  
Thus are poor maids unkindly used,  
By Love and Nature, both abused,  
All kinds of Comforts are refused:  
for when we burn with secret Flame,  
we hide our griefs, or die with shame.   

Such Torments we poor Maids endure;  
the like was never known,  
In any former Age 'tis sure,  
Nor can we hope to find a cure  
which moves us thus to moan:  
In secret places, where we lie,  
Each Minute ready for to die;  
And all in vain, for help we cry.  
For comfortless we still remain,  
tortured with grief, and wrecked with pain.   
 

Our Lives are comfortless to us,  
except we them enjoy;  
Who cause us for to Languish thus:  
Who'd think the want of one poor Buss,  
could Maidens thus annoy;  
That night and day we should Lament,  
And wast away in discontent;  
Our Follies still we do repent:  
but 'tis in vain, for 'tis too late,  
for to lament our rigid fate.   

We must these Torments still endure,  
except Men prove more kind;  
Nought else to us can joy procure,  
Or bring that Bliss which will endure,  
as comfort to the mind.  
Languishing thoughts do us consume,  
And in the end will prove our doom;  
Yea, bring each Maiden to her Tomb;  
who can her Love no ways obtain,  
but dies, because she Loves in vain.   

What rigid fate is this we meet,  
each hour of every day,  
Whilst Men their days are blest and sweet,  
In ev'ry part our Pulses beat,  
and we consume away.  
Where's Cupid's court of equity,  
For Poets say, it so should be;  
But such a thing, I ne'er could see,  
which forces me for to complain,  
although I find 'tis all in vain.   

Then let us bid this World farewell,  
since we no joys can find.  
Elysium will this place excel;  
For this to us is present Hell,  
tormenting every mind;  
Who feels the smart of Cupid's Bow,  
Is weary of her Life, I know  
She doth Torments undergo,  
and therefore will be free to part,  
from this sad world, to ease her Heart.   

Yet those who can their Loves enjoy,  
thrice happy sure are they,  
Nothing on Earth can them annoy;  
What crosses can their Bliss destroy,  
who surfeit every day.  
Banquets of Kisses do they fast;  
While we for want consume and waste:  
Unto the Grave, then let us haste;  
for Death must be our chiefest friend,  
and put our Sorrows to an end.   

Tormented Heart, than broke and die,  
since I'm so slighted here;  
In flames of fire, I scorch and fry,  
And so shall do perpetually,  
till I enjoy my dear;  
Which if I never can obtain,  
To hope to Live, as all in vain;  
For I with Sorrow shall be Slain;  
yet freely will this Word depart,  
with a true Lover's Broken-Heart.    

London, Printed for Charles Passenger, on London-Bridge.