Resound, you walls, an echo to my moan;
And thou, cold bed wherein I lie alone,
Bear witness yet what rest thy lady takes,
When others sleep which may enjoy their makes.
In prime of youth when Cupid kindled fire,
And warm'd my will with flames of fervent love;
To further forth the fruit of my desire,
My friends devis'd this mean for my behove.
They made a match according to my mind,
And cast a snare my fancy for to blind :
Short tale to make, the deed was almost done
Before I knew which way the work begun.
And with this lot I did myself content,
I lent a liking to my parents choice;
With hand and heart I gave my free consent,
And hung in hope for ever to rejoice.
I liv'd and lov'd long time in greater joy
Than she which held King Priam's son of Troy : But three lewd lots have chang'd my heaven to hell, And those be these, give ear and mark them well.
First, Slander, he which always beareth hate
To happy hearts in heavenly state that bide:
'Gan play his part to stir up some debate,
Whereby Suspect into my choice might glide,
And by his means the slime of false suspect,
Did (as I fear) my dearest friend infect.
Thus by these twain long was I plung'd in pain,
Yet in good hope my heart did still remain.
But now (ah me!) the greatest grief of all,
Sound loud my Lute, and tell it out my tongue,
The hardest hap that ever might befall;
The only cause wherefore this song is sung,
Is this, alas! my love, my lord, my roi
My chosen pheare, my gem, and all my joy
Is kept perforce out of my daily sight,
Whereby I lack the stay of my delight.
In lofty walls, in strong and stately towers,
With troubled mind in solitary sort,
My lovely lord doth spend his days and hours,
A weary life devoid of all disport.
And I, poor soul, must lie here all alone,
To try my truth, and wound my will with moan ;
Such is my hap to shake my blooming time
With winter's blasts before it pass the prime.
Now have you heard the sum of all my grief,
Whereof to tell my heart (oh) rents in twain,
Good ladies yet lend you me some relief,
And bear a part to ease me of my pain,
My sores are such that weighing well my truth They might provoke the craggy rocks to ruth; And move these walls with tears for to lament The loathsome life wherein my youth was spent.
But thou, my Lute, be still, now take thy rest,
Repose thy bones upon this bed of down,
Thou hast discharg'd some burthen from my breast,
Wherefore take thou my place, here lie thee down,
And let me walk to tire my restless mind,
Untill I may entreat some courteous wind
To blow these words unto my noble make,
That he may see I sorrow for his sake,
A Wenches Lamentation for the loss of her Sweetheart he having left her a babe to play with, being the fruits of her folly."
BALOW, my babe, weep not for me,
Whose greatest grief's for wronging thee,
But pity her deserved smart,
Who can but blame her own kind heart,
For trusting to a flattering friend,
The fairest tongue, the falsest mind.
Balow, my babe, &c.
Balow, my babe, ly still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep:
If thou be still I will be glad,
Thy weeping makes thy mother sad :
Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy,
Thy father wrought me great annoy.
First when he came to court my love,
With sugar'd words he did me move;
His flattering and fained cheer
To me that time did not appear,
But now I see that cruel he,
Cares neither for my babe nor me.
I cannot choose but love him still,
Although that he hath done me ill,
For he hath stolen away my heart,
And from him it cannot depart ;
In well or wo,
where ere he go,
I'll love him though he be my foe.
But peace, my comfort, curse not him,
Who now in seas of grief doth swim,
Perhaps of death: for who can tell
Whether the judge of heaven or hell,
By some predestinated death
Revenging me hath stopt his breath.
If I were near those fatal bounds,
Where he lies groaning in his wounds:
Repeating, as he pants for breath,
Her name that wounds more deep than death,
O then what woman's heart so strong
Would not forget the greatest wrong?
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