True Love Rewarded with Cruelty.

Being a true Account of one Mary Story, a Maid, who once lived at Limehouse, in the Country of Middlesex that was in love with one who had promised her Marriage, so that the Wedding-day was appoin­ted, but he changd his mind, and forsook her, whereupon she greif and dyed about the latter end of July, 1683.

Tune of, Tender hearts of London City.
YOu that ever in love delighted,
Pitty me that now am slighted
by a young-man too unkind,
That did leave me, and deceive me,
which distracts both braine and mind.
I am strangely discontented,
Night and day I am tormented,
my heart is ready for to break;
But i'le give o're, and love no more,
for my deceitfull George's sake.
But why talk I of giving over?
That am now a dying lover,
languishing through his disdain;
And now with smart I break my heart,
but he ne'r pitties this my pain.
He to me did promise Marriage;
Oh! but mind this strange miscarriage,
his wavering mind began to change,
He pleaded debt, which made me fret,
this alteration was so strange.
But he strove to stand the tryall,
What would follow his denyall,
and to my sorrow now I know
That I must die; most dreadfully
Love wrought my fatal overthrow.
That very dar I should be married,
Then, alas! I so miscarried,
he said that he ow'd twenty pound;
This cruel news did me amuse,
and gave to me a mortal wound.
He said he'd not bring me to trouble
Then my sorrows they grew double,
but 'twas onely a pretence
Me to deceive, and strangely leave,
as I have been informed since.
Oh that he should be so cruel
To my flame to add a fuell
that a Maiden will destroy!
No hope can save me from my Grave
since I have lost mine only joy.
In him alone I was delighted,
Now my daies are all benighted,
all my comforts now are fled,
While I do mourn like one forlorn;
mind what I say on dying-bed.
Tho there's nothing here can daunt thee,
Night and day i'le surely haunt thee
wheresorver thou dost go;
You broke Loves laws, & that's the cause
that has procured my overthrow.
Your false tongue was quick amd nimble,
With me you did so dissemble,
that you gain'd my tender heart,
Which now will break for your dear sake,
that are the cause of all my smart.
Call to mind your gross offences,
Broken vows, and False pretences,
which my ruine did procure;
My heart you won, and I'me undone,
cause you to me are so obdure.
Why should you be so ungratefull,
When I proved not deceitfull?
but as constant as the Dove;
Why at this rate do you me hate,
and slight me thus for my true love?
Oh! remember all your wishes,
Treacherous vows, and fawning kisses,
that you once bestow'd on me,
Me to insnare; but have a care,
lest my poor Ghost does trouble thee.
In your baseness never glory,
Boast not o're poor Mary Story,
time may come when you may rue
That you betray'd a harmless Maid,
who prov'd so loyal unto you.
Though these lines may little move thee,
For thy faults I must reprove thee
with my latest murmuring breath;
I once again do here complain
that thou hast brought me to my death.
You that I do leave behind me,
I intreat you all to mind me,
my last speeches ne'r forget,
This cruel man his Lover kills,
that he so light by her doth set.
Then she did begin to shiver,
All her joynts did shake and quiver,
her Cherry-lips look'd wan and pale,
And cruel Death did stop her breath,
so strongly he did her assaile.
You that hear this mournfull ditty,
Cannot thuse but greive, and pitty
this poor Creature, in distress,
For she did find he was unkind;
she died cause he was pittiless.
Youngmen never prove disloyal,
Put not Maidens to the tryal
when you come their loves to win,
Do not pretend to be a friend,
unless their ruined you'l begin.

Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in West Smithfield.

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