Loves lunacie. Or, Mad Besses fegary Declaring her sorrow, care and mone, which may cause many a sigh and grone: a young-man did this maid some wrong, wherefore she writ this mournfull song. To the tune of, The mad mans Morris. Crimsal, Richard. 1638 Approx. 6 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 2 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A19008 STC 5426 ESTC S108784 99844439 99844439 9250

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A19008) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 9250) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 1627:17) Loves lunacie. Or, Mad Besses fegary Declaring her sorrow, care and mone, which may cause many a sigh and grone: a young-man did this maid some wrong, wherefore she writ this mournfull song. To the tune of, The mad mans Morris. Crimsal, Richard. 1 sheet ([1] p.) : ill. printed for Iohn Wright the younger, and are to bee sold at the upper end of the Old-Bayley, At London : [1638?] Signed at the end: Richard Climsull. Publication suggested by STC. Verse - "Poore Besse, mad Besse, so they call me,". In two parts; woodcuts at head of each part. Reproduction of the original in the British Library.

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 eng Ballads, English -- 17th century. 2002-03 Assigned for keying and markup 2002-04 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2002-05 Sampled and proofread 2002-05 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2002-06 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
Loves Lunacie. Or, Mad Besses Fegary. Declaring her sorrow, care and mone, Which may cause many a sigh and grone: A Young-man did this Maid some wrong, Wherefore she writ this mournfull Song.

To the Tune of, The mad mans Morris.

POore Besse, mad Besse, so they call me, I'm metamorphosed; Strange sights and visions I doe sée, by Furies I am led: Tom was the cause of all my woe, to him I loudly cry, My love to him there's none doth know, yet héere he lets me lie. This Bethlem is a place of torment, héere's fearfull notes still sounding; Héere minds are fild with discontent, and terrors still abounding. Some shake their chaines in wofull wise, some sweare, some curse, some roaring, Some shrieking out with fearfull cries, and some their cloaths are tearing. O curst Alecto that fierce fury, Megara, Tysiphon! Are governours of my late glory; wise Pa • las me doth shun: My jems, my sewels and my earings, are turnd to •• on fetters; They now doe serve for others wearings, such as are now my betters. Orcades Fairies now doe lead me, Ore mountaines, hils and valleys, Naiades doth through waters drive me, and Brizo with me dallies: O sometimes I dreame of my Tom, then with my folded armes I him embrace, saying welcome, but waking bréeds my harmes. Adrastea now robbeth me, of all my wit and patience, Angarona will not receive me, to live in peace and silence: My mind runs on my fine apparell, which once did fit my wearing: Then with my selfe I séeme to quarrell, my rags I fall to tearing. O once I was as faire as Briseis, and chast as was Cassandra, But living voyd of joy and blisses, I'm Hero to Leander: For as chast Hero her selfe drowned, so I am droun'd in sorrow; The Fates on me hath sorely frowned, no patience I can borrow.
The second part, To the same tune.

I'M like to faire Philomela, by Tereus basely ravished; Yet when his burning lust did thaw, he closely her imprisoned; And even so I'm quite defloured by Tom of all my senses; My love and meanes he hath devowred, making no recompences. You Gods and all you Goddesses, pray listen to my mourning, And grace me with this happinesse, to sée my Toms returning. Or if you will not grant me this, to send him hither to me, Send me but word whereas he is, and Tom, Ile come unto thée. If that he be in God Marses traine, where armour brightly glisters; Be sure Ile fetch him home againe, in spight of the thrée Sisters: Or if he be in Venus Court, where Cupid shoots his arrowes: Ile fetch him thence from all his sport, onely to ease my sorrowes. Stay, who comes here? tis the sisters thrée, which lately I did mention, I doubt they come to chide with me and hinder my intention. Clotho brings wool, Lachesis doth spin, Atropos cuts asunder; Now Ile away and not be séene, each one is my Commander. You Maids and Uirgins faire and pure note well my carefull calling, You cannot thinke what I endure, Cupid hath caus'd my falling: When I was as now many be. frée from God Cupids arrowes, I would have smil'd at any shée, that should tell me of sorrowes. My lodging once was soft and easie, my garments silke and sattin; Now in a locke of straw I lie, this is a wofull pattin: My diet once was choise and fine, all which did not content me; Now I drinke water, once good wine was naught unlesse twere sent mée. Thus pride and love together joynd to worke my vtter ruine; They wrought my discontent in mind, which causes my undoing. And thus good people all adue, perhaps you nere may sée me, Farewell I bid once more to you, I'm grieved sore believe me. But if you chance once more to come, bring tidings from my dearest, By all meanes bring my true love Tom, hee's welcomst when hées néerest: The day is past, and night is come, and here comes our commander; Hée'l locke me into a darke roome, 'tis sorrowes chiefest Chamber.
FINIS. Richard Climsull.

AT LONDON,

Printed for Iohn Wright the younger, and are to bee sold at the upper end of the Old-Bayley.