The paire of Northerne Turtles: Whose love was firme till cruell Death, Depriv'd them both of life and breath. To a new Northerne Tune, or, A health to Betty.
Farewell, farewell, my dearest deare,
all happinesse wait on thee,
For now alas my Turtle Dove,
I am departing from thée,
Nothing but death could change our love
but now he that will sever,
And separate those Turtle Doves,
which long lay lulling together.
Oft times with kind imbraces swéet,
thy armes haue me inclosed,
With kisses lulling me asléepe,
like Lovers kind disposed,
Whose firm affections nought but death,
at any time could seber,
But now be'l part those Turtle Doves,
which long lay lulling together.
O could I stay but now with thée,
Thou shouldst as constant proue me,
As Thysbe to her Pyramus,
so dearely doe I love thée,
As not the love of any man,
our loves at all should sever,
Farewell my Love, we now no more,
shall nere lye lulling together.
Could teares expresse my griefe of heart
which now I have conceiv'd,
Whole rivers frō mine eies shuld flow,
to tell thee how I'm grieved,
That now I needs must part from thée,
since death our loves doe sever,
And that alas we canot now,
no more lye lulling together.
But yet assure thy selfe my Dove,
my Turtle and my dearest,
Above all other men in the world,
thy love to me was neerest,
No fancy towards another Mate,
our loves at all could sever
So kindly did we alwayes gréet,
while we lay lulling together.
Which maks me sigh, and wéep, & mourn
to leave my onely Swéeting,
But yet I hope in ioy and blisse,
wée shall have better méeting;
Though in this world most cruell death,
our love and ioyes doe sever,
Yet we in better ioyes I hope,
in heaven shall live together.
Therefore my Deare be not thou sad,
nor too much discontented,
O let not my departure hence,
of thée be now lamented,
Lest killing griefe perplex thy mind;
for though our bodies sever,
We shall in the Elizian fields,
in ioy and blisse méet together.
So once more I hid thée adieu,
now take thy latest kisses,
For now pale death hath wounded me,
farewell all earthly blisses,
Farewell my dearest Turtle Dove,
yet though our bodies sever,
I hope in everlasting blisse,
we shall shortly méet together.
The second part of the Northerne Turtle; Wayling his unhappy fate, In being deprived of his sweet Mate. To the same Tune.
AS I was walking all alone,
I heard a man lamenting,
Vnder a hollow bush he lay,
full sor he did repent him:
Alas, quoth he, my Love is gone,
which causeth me to wander,
Yet merry will I never be,
till I lye lulling beyond her.
Good Lord so soundly could I sléepe,
if that I lay lulling beyond her,
All the night, till day were light,
and the Sun did shine vpon her,
Yet early by day I would steale away,
to kéepe my Love from slander,
Yet merry will I never be,
till I lye lulling beyond her.
My Love and I will gallantly,
so many yéeres together,
Her love was so inclined to me,
that now I'm loth to leaue her:
But now this wicked world is such,
that causeth me to wander,
Yet will I never woman touch,
till I lye lulling beyond her.
Like to the Turtle I will mourne,
in absence of my marrow,
With bitter teares I cry and mourne,
my ioy is all but sorrow;
My comfort is to me much care,
whil'st floods and woods I wander,
Nay, merry will I never be,
till I lye lulling beyond her.
O Gods that make the Fowles that fly.
to love their Mates so dearely,
Yet for her sake they doe refuse,
to sing or chirp once chéerely;
What comfort can the world afford,
what ioyes then can I render?
Nay merry will I never be,
till I lye lulling beyond her.
A pretty Dame was once my Love,
till death made separation,
And she to me did constant prove,
without dissimulation;
Yet for her sake still will I wéepe,
while I on earth doe wander,
Nay soundly will I never sléepe,
till I lye lulling beyond her.
Though cruell death hath cut the breath
of this my comely creature.
To méet againe we have true faith,
our change is but a feature,
Death may indeed in bondage kéepe,
yet not our love can hinder,
Then soundly, soundly shall I sléepe,
when as I lye lulling beyond her.
My dearest Deare I come to thée,
when't pleaseth death to send me,
The grave I count my dearest home,
oh quickly then befriend me,
She prov'd a Hero true to me,
and I will be Leander,
I never shall in quiet be,
till I lye lulling beyond her.
FINIS.
Printed at London for F. Coules, dwelling in the Old-Baily.