The tormented lovers. Maidens lament their present state, and count they meet with rigid fate; but e're they will their minds explain, they'l dye of their tormenting pain. To a pleasant play-house tune, called, Oh love! if e're thoul't ease a heart.

The Tormented Lovers . Maidens Lament their present State , And count they meet with rigid Fate ; But e're they will their minds explain , They 'l dye of their Tormenting Pain . To a pleasant Play-house Tune , called , Oh Love ! if e're thou l't ease a Heart .

O Love if e're thou 'lt ease a Heart , that owns thy power Divine , That Bleeds with thy too cruel Dart ; Yea , Burns with never ceasing smart ; take pitty now on mine : Beneath the shades , I fainting lye ; Ten-Thousand times I wish to dye ; Yet when I find cold Death draw nigh , I grive to loose my pleasing pain , and call my Wishes back again . Thus I sate musing all alone , in the shady myrtle Grove , As to my self , I made a moan , And every Eccho gave a Groan ; came by the Man I Lov'd . Oh! How I strove , my Griefs to hide , I Panted , Sigh'd , and almost Dy'd , Yet did each tatling Eccho chide ; for fear some Breath of moving Air , should to his Ears my Sorrows bear . And ●ow you Powers , I dye to gain , but one poor parting Kiss ; Yet will endure this deadly pain , E're I 'le one Wish or Thought retain , that Honour thinks amiss . Thus are poor maids unkindly us'd , By Love and Nature , both abus'd , All kinds of Comforts are refus'd : for when we burn with secret Flame , we hide our griefs , or dye with shame . Such Torments we poor Maids endure ; the like was never known , In any former Age 't is sure , Nor can we hope to find a cure which moves us thus to moan : In secret places , where we lye , Each Minute ready for to dye ; And all in vain , for help we cry . For comfortless we still remain , tortur'd with grief , and wreckt with pain .

OVr Lives are comfortless to us , except we them injoy ; 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 't is in vain , for 't is 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 e'ry part our Pulses beat , and we consume away . Where 's Cupids court of equity , For Poets say , it so should be ; But such a thing , I ne'r could see , which forces me for to complain , although I find 't is all in vain . Then let us bid this World farewell , since we no joys can find . Elizium will this place excell ; For this to us is present Hell , tormenting every mind ; Who feels the smart of Cupids 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 injoy , 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 wast : Vnto the Grave , then let us hast ; for Death must be our chiefest friend , and put our Sorrows to an end . Tormented Heart , then brake and dye , since I 'me so slighted here ; In flames of fire , I scorch and fry , And so shall do perpetually , till I injoy 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 Lovers Broken-Heart .