THE Youngman's Lamentation  
Containing, His Pastionate Complaint of his Unconstant Lover, Together, with his Resolution to leave her who scornfully slighted him.  
To an Excellent New Tune, or, Over Hills and high Mountains.  
Licenced according to Order.  
 
 
 

MEe●ing ●s a pleasure,  
but part's a grief,  
An Unconstant Lover  
i● worse than a Thief,  
A Thief can but Rob me,  
a●● take what I have,  
But an Unconstant Lover  
will bring me to the Grave.   

When fancy is grounded,  
and rooted beside,  
The lover is wounded  
as soon as denied;  
Many Torments are bleeding  
to increase his pain,  
And the lover lies bleeding  
by the darts of disdain.   

This is my condition,  
I needs must confess,  
With humble submission  
I have made my address;  
In her Charms I delighted  
more than Gold I declare,  
Yet am scornfully slighted  
for the love which I bear.   
 
 

I value not treasure,  
the rich Golden Ore,  
There's joy, love, and pleasure,  
which I dearly adore;  
But alas! that sweet blessing  
I may not enjoy,  
I am sorrows possessing,  
which my life will destroy.   

Like a Ship on the Ocean,  
I am tossed too and fro,  
From the height of promotion,  
to the depth of sad woe,  
While the Billows are roaring  
in a Tempest of grief,  
I the Fates am imploring,  
but can find no relief.   

Of a falsehearted lover  
I needs must complain,  
To my grief I discover  
that my sighs are in vain;  
Having moved her to pity,  
with tears in my eyes,  
While that sorrowful ditty  
she would scorn and despise.   

To think that my jewel  
should torture me so,  
In love's flaming fuel  
with a fever I glow,  
She's more than ungrateful,  
unconstant, unkind  
To her dear loyal lover,  
like the wavering wind.   

In her Cheeks blushing Roses,  
with lilies appear,  
Where Cupid reposes,  
as her Charms I draw near,  
I account it my duty  
her perfection to prise,  
She's a Phoenix for beauty,  
was she constant likewise.   

If her heart was not ranging,  
she should soon be my Bride,  
But alas she is changing  
and turns with the Tide,  
Having ruined many  
by her false-heart alone,  
She's not constant to any,  
but can love more than one.   

Since I find out her folly,  
I'll no longer repine,  
But will strive to be jolly  
with a Glass of Rich Wine,  
No longer about her  
will I troubled be,  
I can now live without her,  
let her go, farewell she.   

Tho' I am forsaken,  
yet she is forsworn,  
Yet she is mistaken,  
if she think that I'll mourn;  
I'll set as 〈…〉 lie by her,  
as e'er she did b● me,  
And for ever will deny her,  
let her go, farewel she.    

Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Deacon, J. Blare, and J. Back.