Wandering shepherdess, or, the betrayed damsel (3)/The Wandering Shepherdess

THE WANDERING SHEPHERDESS.

YOU that do know what to true love belong,
I’ll tell you a ſtory that lately was done:
At Oxford a merchant’s fair daughter did dwell,
Who for wit and beauty did others excel.

A noble young ſquire that lived hard by,
Upon this young lady did ſoon caſt an eye;
And for to court her he did ⟨thus⟩ begin:
Thou faireſt of creatures that ever was ſeen,

⟨Do⟩ not be ſo cruel but yield unto me,
For without your love there’s no comfort for me,
And now give conſent for to be my bride,
Or elſe I am ruin’d for ever, he cry’d.

The lady with innocent ſmiles did reply,
’Tis pity so good ⟨like⟩ a creature ſhould die,
When ’tis in my power your life to ſave,
So now I grant thee this that you do crave.

With eager embraces he flew to her arms,
And ſaid, Thou haſt ten thouſand charms,
Which invite great ⟨monarchs⟩ to fall at your feet;
But I’ve got the prize, and my joys are complete

Firſt aſk my father’s conſent, ſhe did ſay,
For I muſt ever his pleaſure obey:
My honoured parents I mean to pleaſe,
For fear the Heavens be with us diſpleas’d.

Then ſtraight to her father the ’ſquare did go,
And the whole matter he gave him to know,
Her father was pleaſed he ſhould be his ſon,
And ſaid, if ſhe loves him it ſoon ſhall be done.

All things were agreed on, the time was ſet,
And now as ſoon as this couple were met.
This perjured villain, the innocent fair
He with falſe deluſions began to enſnare.

With modeſty ſhe unto him did ſay,
Sir, do not my honour thus ſtrive to betray,
This is not true love, but luſt you do ⟨mean⟩,
Better had it been if I ne’er had you ſeen.

It will not be long e’er I ſhall be your bride;
Then ſeek not my ruin, ſhe to him reply’d;
O ⟨talk⟩ not of ruin, thou pri’e of my life,
May heaven forſake me if thou’rt not my wife.

With many perſuaſions his will he obtain’d,
And then her bright perſon, he ſoon diſdain’d;
For ſtraight up to London this villain dis come.
Leaving his jewel in ſorrow to mourn.

Her parents wonder’d the ’ſquire never came,
Aſking their daughter the cauſe of the ſame;
She ſaid, honoured father, the cauſe I don’t know,
But men they are fickle, and ſo let him go.

Tho’ ſhe to her parents did not ſeem ſurpriz’d,
When ſhe was alone, the tears from her eyes
Like fountains would run; crying, Worſt of men,
For your ſake I will truſt no man again.

But I will wander thro’ vallies and groves,
Be witneſs Heaven, how falſe is my love!
And ſtill I must love him do all that I can,
I muſt be a ſlave to this perjured man.

Rich jewels and treaſure ſhe did provide,
Saying, Now I will wander whatever betide!
And if my troubled heart does find any reſt,
To live in a cottage I’d think myſelf bleſt.

So then from her parents away ſhe did go,
Poor ſoul with a heart full of ſorrow and wo,
Thro’ loneſome fields and woods ſhe did hie,
Then ſhe a ſmall cottage at length did eſpy.

It was a poor ſhepherd that in it did dwell,
Seeing the lady sit down near his cell.
He welcom’d her in, and ſaid, ſweet lady fair,
Pray what cruel fortune has driven you here?

Then into his cottage the lady did go,
His wife unto her great kindneſs did ſhow
When ſhe with the ſhepherd ſometime had been,
Her riches and jewels ſhe gave unto them,

And ſaid, O this matter ⟨let⟩ no one know;
And to keep the ſheep in the vallies I’ll go,
The Wandering Shepherdeſs you can me call,
Unfortunate love is the cauſe of fall.

A rich ſuit of green embroider’d ware,
With a garland of flow’rs had this lady fair,
To ſhade of the ſun from her beauty clear,
To her ſheep in the vallies ſhe did repair.

When two long years were finiſh’d and gone,
The ’ſquire to Oxford ſtraight did return,
Her parents, accus’d him of wronging their child,
He ſaid, She was fickle and falſe as the wind.

But now, ſaid her father, I fear ſhe is dead,
So we can add nothing to what we have ſaid
But ſure ſhe was honeſt and virtuous to all,
And you are the man that cauſed her fall.

Now we will leave her parents to mourn,
And unto the Shepherdeſs let us return,
Who was the talk of folk far and near,
At length her lover the fame came to hear.

He muſt ſee this beauty whatever betide,
Then he got his coach and away he did ride;
And juſt as bright Phoebus was going down,
He came to she valley where ſhe lay alone.

The lambs were ſporting in innocent ſort,
And ſhe was pleaſed with their harmleſs ſport;
Her fine ſilver hair ſweet breezes did wave,
On a bank of ſweet lilies ſhe careleſsly laid.

O gods! ſaid the ’ſquire ſure ſhe is divine,
But if ſhe is mortal, oh! let her be mine,
He little thought it was his love ſo true,
Men ſo much admire each beauty they view.

The charming Shepherdeſs turning her eyes,
Soon did know him to her great ſurprize,
But yet who ſhe was he did not know
At length to her cottage ſhe homeward did go.

He followed her home, ſaying, Sweet fair,
Pity a lover that is in deſpair;
For ⟨be⟩ the glance of your charming eyes,
My love-ſick heart is fill’d with ſurprize.

Sir, you ſeem a person of high degree,
And I a poor Shepherdeſs now as you ſee:
Talk not ſweet creature thy charms are ſo ſweet,
Will cauſe the great monarch to fall at thy feet.

The ſhepherdeſs then invited him in,
But now afreſh ⟨her⟩ ſorrows ⟨do⟩ begin:
The garland of flowers being took from her head,
He knew ’twas his love he thought had been dead.

His love-ſick heat he ſoon did abate.
But he unto her no notice did take:
Quoth he to himſelf, ſince it is thee
I ere to-morrow your butcher will be.

They parted that night the next morning to meet,
In the ſweet paſture where ſhe kept her ſheep,
And the next morning juſt as the ſun roſe.
This perjured wretch to the Shepherdeſs goes;

No one being there, he to her did ſay,
Come madam, ſtrip off that gaudy array;
As I’m come ſo for an harlot to ſee,
I am reſolved your butcher to be.

Can’ſt thou be ſo cruel, to him ſhe did ſay.
My innocent life thus to take away?
What harm my dear jewel, have I done to thee,
The crime it was yours in deluding of me.

Vile ſtrumpet, doſt thou preſume for to ⟨prate⟩,
Come yield to my ſword, for no longer I’ll wait:
She to him for mercy did bitterly cry,
But he hard-hearted wretch had no mercy.

But finding with him ſhe could not prevail,
O’ Heav’n ſaid ſhe, ſince all fleſh is frail,
Pardon my crimes which are many, ſhe cries,
Now traitor I’m ready for your ſacrifice.

She op’ned her breaſt far whiter than ſnow,
He pierced her heart whilſt the crimson did flow;
Her body he threw in a river near,
And thus dy’d the beauty of fair Oxfordſhire.

Then home he returned, and when he came there,
He wandered about like a man in deſpair;
No reſt night nor day he ever cou’d find,
The ſweet Shepherdeſs ran ſo in his mind.

Within four days he took to his bed,
The doctor gave him over, it is ſaid,
When he found his dying hour was come,
He ſent for her father, and told what was done.

Then in a ſad ſort he yielded up his breath,
Her father ſaid, I’m the unhappieſt man on earth,
Then he ſought the body of his daughter dear,
Who in ſumptuous manner was bury’d we hear.

Within a little time her father did die.
Now let each take warning by this tragedy;
And maidens beware of men’s flattering tongue,
For if you conſent you are ſurely undone.