Love's downfal: being a sad and true relation of a young lady, who fell in love with her father's stable-groom, but their loves being discovered, was disappointed by her one father, who would have matcht her to a knight; but she for love of the groom, fell into despair, and in the conclusion made herself away. Likewise how her death shortened he father's days, and how her faithful friend, the groom, ended his own life with a sharp weapon: being a warning to all parents not to match their children against their wills, &c. To the tune of, Flora farewel: or, True love rewarded with loyalty, &c.

1692-1695?

The Dying Lovers Complaint.

Daphne laments cause 
Strephon is unkind,
Wanting his love no comfort he can find,

 [...]nd missing that which she desires to have,
Poor 
Daphne sighs her selfe into the Grave.

Tune of Young Phaon.

[figure]

I Am quite undone my cruel one
has me forsaken quite,
He is the man, in whom I can
take pleasure and delight.

But he's unkind and now I find
my thred is almost spun,
here I lament in discontent
alass I'me quite undone.

Whilest others sleep I mourn and weep
in tears I 
 [...]m almost, drownd,
When absent he is gone from me,
No comfort can be found.

In slumbring dreams methinks he seems
to be full kind to me,
But when I wake this great mistake
brings sorrow certainly.

The second part, To the same tune.

My Golden hair I rent and tear
like one, outragious mad.

Cupid say I, I thee defie
thou wicked wanton Lad.

A minute then scarce past agest
e're I do him implore,

Cupid say I, thy deity
I ever will adore.

Thus do I pass my dayes alass
and can no pleasure find,

 [...] sigh and cry continually
he's cruel and unkind.

Twice in a breath I wish for death
such torments I endure,

 [...] he's 
 [...]ind I ne'r s'hall fin
 [...]

 [...] get a cure.

Then down I lye in hopes to dye,

 [...]re him I see again,
But thoughts of him brings life aga
 [...]
and thus prolongs my pain.

Both cur'd and kill'd, blood shed & 
 [...]
all in a Moment is,
From death could he again fetch 
 [...]
with one poor smile and kiss,

Thus do I turn I freiz and burn
in a most strange condition,
No Doctors Art can cure my smart.
except he prove Physitian.

But hopes of that must be forgot
and I must to the grave.
Come welcome death and stop my breath
that I some rest may have.

Printed for, F Cole. T. Vere. J. Wrigh [...] J. Clark. W. Thackery. and T. Passenger.

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