The Life of Love

All you that do in Love delight,
now mind what I relate;
And give your judgement now aright,
of this my cruel Fate:
I loved one most tenderly,
that lov'd not me again:
Though I for him could freely dye,
he pays me with dsidain.

And yet upon him I must dote,
O what a Fool am I:
Though yet I love him well I know't,
'tis meer Simplicity,
To mourn for him who laughs at me,
i'th midst of all my pain;
When he should be most kind to me,
He doth me most disdain.

Hard hay I had in this my Choice,
to meet one so unkind;
Whilst others sweetly do rejoyce,
no Comfort I can find:
But sighing waste my self away,
and linger in my Chain;
I pine for him both night and day,
that doth me still disdain.

This is Vnjustice to the heighth,
that Reason contradicts;
Both night and day for him to sigh
that my poor heart afflicts:
Oh! I had rather chuse to dye,
then in this state remain,
'Tis worse then Death assuredly,
to meet with such disdain.

Well since I must this grief endure,
i'le now resign my breath;
For being past all hopes of Cure,
I covet for my Drath:
For I shall never quiet be,
while I do here remain;
Come Death and strike immediately,
then farewell his disdain.

Then down her Cheeks the tears did run
and oft she wish't in vain;
For that which could not well be won,
which much encreas'd her pain,
Come Death, quoth she, & Pierce my heart,
let me no more complain;
I long to feel thy killing dart,
since he doth me disdain.

The Young-Mans Loving Answer.
MY dear you're too much unkind
against me thus to speak;
For thou shalt see I will prove kind,
thy heart it shall not break:
For every tear that thou hast spent,
I bottle up in store;
Believe me Love, 'tis my intent,
that thou should'st grieve no more.

No no, forbear to mourn for me,
who loves thee tenderly
I will be faithful unto thee,
and constant till I dye:
Thou art an Angel unto me,
'tis thee I do adore;
In thee alone I do delight,
then grieve for me no more.

It pierc'd me through my tender heart,
to heart thee thus complain;
It is not in the power of Art,
to make me thee disdain:
My Love is spotless I protest,
none e're lov'd so before;
My dear, I do not speak in jest,
then grieve for me no more.

Let this my Love a pattern be,
to all both young and old;
Who say, they love unfeignedly.
but yet I dare be bold
To say, that many do deceive,
for scarce one in a Score,
That say they love you may believe,
but mind such Blades no more.