Kentshire tragedy, or, The constant lovers overthrow/The Kentshire tragedy or The constant lovers overthrow

THE KENT-SHIRE TRAGEDY.

A Lady lov'd a gallant Sailor,
⁠and she ador'd him as her life,
With solemn vows and faithful tokens,
⁠she promised to be his wife.

But cruel parents, and deep at variance,
⁠to think she lov'd the young man so,
By the hard hearted, they soon were parted,
⁠which was the cause of his overthrow.

To the Indies then this handsome young man,
⁠was forc'd to quit the British shore,
For many a day as I heard say,
⁠but he never saw his true love more.

In deep distraction this lovely Lady,
⁠to Bedlam then she was confin'd;
Crying, Death come ease me, grief hath seiz'd me,
⁠Oh! what can ease a troubled mind.

O! what shall I do? or what shall I say?
⁠or what shall I do since my love's gone?
From Carolina to Pensylvania,
⁠I'll search the Indies round and round.

On board I'll enter, my life to venture,
⁠for the young man whom I do adore;
From Pensylvania to Carolina
⁠I'll search the Indies o'er and o'er.

Like one in battle, my chains I'll rattle,
⁠for the young man whom I do adore.
My heart’s a breaking, since I'm forsaken,
⁠and all by my parents' cruelty.

O what care I for gold and silver,
⁠for rubies, pearls, or precious stones,
Or what care I for worldly treasure,
⁠since my true love is from me gone.

Like a malefactor in grief I rapture,
⁠or like a convict in revenge;
Alas! fond love has bound me faster,
⁠than all the strength of your Bedlam chains,

To fate resign'd, I'm here confin'd,
⁠into this dungeon where I do ly;
Why was I born, to be forlorn,
⁠under the frowns of tyranny?

(illegible text) Bedlam's Porter, be my comforter,
⁠and from this dungeon set me free,
(illegible text)r bring me to my dearest jewel,
⁠that I once more his face may see.

(illegible text) deep despair this Lady fair,
⁠in Bedlam died as I heard say;
⟨Or⟩ that very night her faithful lover,
⁠in Biscay-bay was cast away.

⟨With⟩ lamentation and great vexation,
⁠her mother cry'd, my child is dead;
⟨I've⟩ prov’d her ruin and sad undoing,
⁠⟨This⟩ day her blood lies on my head.

Is gold and grandure such an honour,
⁠that it my piece of mind destroys,
True love I find it is much better,
⁠than any of such empty toys.

My wit is cracked, with grief distracted,
⁠my mind runs like the raging waves,
When I think on these loyal lovers
⁠who now lie in their silent graves.