Unconstant Damon: OR, Clorinda's Languishing Lamentation:

To a delightfull new Tune, or, He that loves best must suffer most.

Licensed according to Order.

[...]
I.
SOme mournful Muse attend my Quill,
While I the Shades and Valleys fill,
With Sighs and sad lamenting Cries,
Since Damon doth my Love despise:
Here for his sake I bleeding lye,
And fain I would but cannot dye.
II.
Among the Mountains did I rove,
And likewise e'ery silent Grove,
To find out my Disloyal Swain;
But yet I find it all in vain.
Now for his sake I bleeding lye,
And fain I would but cannot dye.
III.
When first the Shades I did frequent,
I little knew what Lovers meant;
My freedom then I did enjoy,
But Damon did the same destroy:
Now for his sake I bleeding lye,
And fain I would but cannot dye.
4.
Why doth the God of Love invade
The Heart of a young harmless Maid?
And leave me likewise bound, faith she,
In Chains of sad Captivity?
Where I in Sorrow sighing lye,
And fain I would, but cannot dye.
5.
No longer can I now Conceal
My flames, but must the same reveal;
For Cupid with his Golden Dart,
Has wounded deep my yielding Heart,
Soe that in melting Tears I lye,
And fain I would, but cannot dye.
6.
The Rose and Lillys which did twine,
Here in these youthful Cheeks of mine,
Are now become as pale as Lead,
Since all my splendid Glory's fled:
For Damon's sake, I Bleeding lye,
And fain I would, but cannot dye.
7.
The fatal stroke make haste to give,
For I had rather dye than live
In so much Torment, Grief and Pain;
Farewell thon false and perjur'd Swain;
In Grief alas! I bleeding lye,
And fain I would, but cannot dye.
8.
Here I invoke the Powers above,
To pitty me whose Pain is Love,
And yield me now this day Relief,
To ease the anguish of my Grief:
For here alas! I bleeding lye,
And fain I would, but cannot dye.
9.
What have I done to cause this Woe?
Why does the Fares afflict me so?
Why don't my Heart this minute break?
And Death a Final Conquest make:
For here alas! I Bleeding lye,
And fain I would but cannot dye.
10.
The Nymph that now enjoys my Dear.
While I in sorrow Languish here,
She little knows my Wretched State,
The which no Mortal can relate:
For here alas! I bleeding lye,
And fain I would, but cannot dye.

Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Deacon, J. Blare, J. Back.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.