Can he prize the tainted posies, Which on every brest are worne; That may plucke the virgin roses From their never-touched thorne? I can goe rest 35 On her sweet brest, That is the pride of Cynthia's traine: Then stay thy tongue; Thy mermaid song Is all bestowed on me in vaine. 40
Hee's a foole, that basely dallies, Where each peasant mates with him: Shall I haunt the thronged vallies, Whilst ther's noble hills to climbe? No, no, though clownes 45 Are scar'd with frownes, I know the best can but disdaine; And those Ile prove: So will thy love Be all bestowed on me in vaine. 50
I doe scorne to vow a dutie, Where each lustfull lad may wooe: Give me her, whose sun-like beautie Buzzards dare not soar unto: Shee, shee it is 55 Affoords that blisse For which I would refuse no paine: But such as you, Fond fooles, adieu; You seeke to captive me in vaine. 60
Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me; Seeke no more to worke my harmes: Craftie wiles cannot deceive me, Who am proofe against your charmes: You labour may 65 To lead astray The heart, that constant shall remaine: And I the while Will sit and smile To see you spend your time in vaine. 70
THE SPANISH VIRGIN, OR EFFECTS OF JEALOUSY.
The subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, intitled, _The theatre of God's judgments_, by Dr. Beard and Dr. Taylor, 1642. Pt. ii. p. 89.--The text is given (with corrections) from two copies; one of them in black-letter in the Pepys collection. In this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden:
"Oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell: Depart from hence, and therein dwell."
All tender hearts, that ake to hear Of those that suffer wrong; All you, that never shed a tear, Give heed unto my song.
Fair Isabella's tragedy 5 My tale doth far exceed: Alas! that so much cruelty In female hearts should breed!
In Spain a lady liv'd of late, Who was of high degree; 10 Whose wayward temper did create Much woe and misery.
Strange jealousies so fill'd her head With many a vain surmize, She thought her lord had wrong'd her bed, 15 And did her love despise.
A gentlewoman passing fair Did on this lady wait; With bravest dames she might compare; Her beauty was compleat. 20