Her trembling hand a letter wrote, My dearest dear, what must I do? Alas! what have I done, that I Forsaken am now by you! I could have wedded a worthy farmer, Who little knows my misery; I did forsake a wealthy grazier, All for the love I bore to thee. And now my little infant dear Will quickly spread abroad my shame, One line of comfort to me send, E’er I am by your cruelty slain. This answer he to her did send, Your insolence amazes me, To think that I should marry one With whom, before, I have been free. Indeed I’ll not a father be Unto a bastard you shall bear, So take no further thought of me, No more from you pray let me hear. When she this letter did receive, She wrung her hands and wept full sore: And every day she still would range, To lament within the pleasant bower. The faithless wretch began to think, Her father’s rich, as I do hear, He said, I sure shall punished be, Soon as the story he does hear. The devil then he did begin To enter in his wretched mind; Her precious life he then must have, Thus he to act the thing did find. He many times did watch her out, Into the pleasant valley, where One day he privately did go, When he knew she was not there. And privately he dug a grave Underneath an oaken tree. Then in the branches he did hide, To act his piece of cruelty. Poor harmless soul she nothing knew, As usual she went there alone, And on a bank of violets In mournful manner sat her down. Of his unkindness did complain; At length the grave she did espy, She rose indeed to view the same, Not thinking that he was so nigh. You gentle gods so kind, said she, Did you this grave for me prepare? He then descended from the tree, Saying, strumpet now thy death is near. O welcome, welcome, she replied, As long as by your hand I die, This is a pleasant marriage bed, I’m ready, use your cruelty. But the heavens bring to light Thy crime, and thus let it appear, Winter and summer on this grave, The damask rose in bloom spring here. Never to wither though ’tis cropped, But when thy hand do touch the same, Then may the bloom that minute blast To bring to light my bitter shame. More she’d have said, but with his sword, He pierc’d her tender body through; Then threw her in the silent grave, Saying, now, there is an end of you. He fill’d the grave up close again, With weeds the same did overspread; Then unconcerned, he straight went home, Immediately went to his bed.