The Youngman's A. B. C.  
Or, Two Dozen of Verses which a Youngman sent his Love, who proved unkind.  
The Tune is, The Youngman's A. B. C.  
 

ACcept, dear love, these  
shadows of my grief,  
And let thy pity yield  
me some relief!  
A Captive to thy will  
I must remain;  
For thou art only she  
must ease my pain.   

BE kind to me as I am  
kind to thee;  
●last not thy fame,  
with cruelty to me:  
but let thy inward parts thy  
features grace,  
beauty in heart adorns  
the outward face.   

COnsider how my  
service hath been bend  
Continually to gain  
thy sweet content:  
Canst thou, my Dear  
be so obdure to me?  
Cross unto him that  
is so true to thee.   

DEfer no time to  
understand my grief,  
but with some speed  
come ease me with relief:  
Thy beauty rare hath  
struck my heart so deep,  
That all my days I  
mean to wail and weep.   

EXcept thou d●st some  
favour to me yield,  
I shall be slain with  
love in Venu● field:  
I am so discontent in  
mind and heart,  
That neither means  
nor time can cure my smart.   

FOrget thou not the  
woe wherein I dwell,  
My torments do all  
all other griefs excel;  
Consider well my woeful  
sable nights,  
and days I spend away  
without delights.   

GRant me thy love to  
mitigate my pain,  
The like thou shalt  
receive from me again.  
So love will we as  
doth the turtle-dove,  
●●ose firm affection  
ever constant prove.   

HAve you respect on this  
the grief I take,  
Which out of sleep  
doth sometimes me awake;  
In Dreams I see that  
which I most desire;  
But waking sets  
my senses all on fire.   

IN doleful sort these  
words I now relate,  
which makes me think  
myself unfortunate;  
To set my heart where  
I had nought but scorn,  
which makes me rue  
the time that I was born   

KIll me not in this  
desperation deep,  
To think how I neither  
eat, nor drink, nor sleep;  
To think of that which  
I cannot obtain,  
The which hath near  
my heart with sorrow slain.   

LEt tender pity move thy  
gentle heart,  
And so from thee  
my love shall never start,  
To gain thy love  
i'll venture life and limb,  
And for thy sake the  
Ocean I will swim.   

MY life I loathe because  
my woes increase,  
Therefore my to●ments cease  
and me release:  
then be not harsh whereas  
thou wouldst be kind,  
but for my love  
let me no hatred find.   

NEither deny to grant  
me this request,  
Nor seek thou not to  
work me more unrest,  
For if you do the  
wo●st share full to thine.  
the worse can come  
ends but one life of mine.   

OH that thou wouldst but  
now conceive aright,  
then would my darkness soon  
be turned to light:  
My greatest sorrows  
I should then destroy  
And all my grief and care  
exchange to joy.   

PIerce then no deeper  
to my bleeding heart,  
The which is ready  
now for to depart:  
He still that loves and  
is not loved again,  
Had better die than  
still to live in pain   

QUench thou the flames  
of this my burning breast,  
which for thy sake  
no time nor tide can rest:  
My love to thee hath  
evermore been true,  
Therefore the same  
see that I have from you.   

REgard my grief how  
still it more exceeds,  
My life is like the Herb  
that's spoiled with weeds:  
Among the finest wheat  
the tares do grow,  
And thou my love hath  
wrought my overthrow.   

Sweet love now take on me  
thy friend, some care,  
Regard my grief that  
still lives in despair  
Of thy true love, which  
is more dear than gold;  
My griefs are more  
than numbers can be told.   

TOo long I've lived and  
yet too late repent,  
For why the glory  
of my life is spent;  
In loving her that  
never did love me,  
O then what day  
of pleasure can I see?   

WOuld I had never  
lived thy face to have seen,  
O then full happy surely  
had I been,  
For never any one  
under the Sun,  
But thou alone,  
could me this wrong done.   

X Thousand times  
more cruel is thy mind,  
Then Heathens, Jews,  
or Turks are in their kind  
Or any one that  
on the earth doth go,  
And woe is me,  
for I have found it so.   

YEt if thy mind be  
so perversely bend,  
That nothing can  
procure my hearts content,  
Know this from me,  
that I have learned of late,  
No more to dote on her  
that doth me hate.   

ZEnobia to Tamburlaine  
ne'er was  
More dear than thou  
to me, but now alas!  
I and my toil, my sighs  
and sobs in vain,  
Why should I love,  
and not be loved again?   

_& Now to set a  
period to my woe,  
If thou wilt have me,  
prithee tell me so:  
if otherwise thou meanest,  
thy mind it send,  
Resolve me off ●●on,  
and there's an end.    

Printed by and for A. Milbourn, and sold by the Booksellers of Pie-corner and London-Bridge.