_The unfortunate Lover. Set by Mr._ WILLIS. [Music] What shall I do, I am undone, Where shall I fly my self to shun; Ah! me my self, my self must kill, And yet I die against my Will. In starry Letters I behold, My death is in the Heavens inroll'd, There find I writ in Skies above, That I, poor I, must die for Love. 'Twas not my Love deserv'd to die, Oh no, it was unworthy I; I for her Love should not have dy'd, But that I had no worth beside. Ah me! that Love such Woe procures, For without her no Life endures; I for her Virtues did her serve, Doth such a Love a Death deserve. _A_ SONG. [Music] My Dear and only Love take heed, How thou thy self expose; And let not longing Lovers feed, Upon such looks as those I'll Marble Wall thee round about, And Build without a Door; But if my Love doth once break out, I'll never Love thee more. If thou hast love that thou refine, And tho' thou seest me not; Yet paralell'd that Heart of thine Shall never be forgot: But if Unconstancy admit, A Stranger to bear sway; My Treasure that proves counterfeit, And he may gain the Day. I'll lock my self within a Cell, And wander under Ground; For there is no such Faith in her, As there is to be found: I'll curse the Day that e'er thy Face, My Soul did so betray; And so for ever, evermore, I'll sing Oh well-a-day! Like _Alexander_ I will prove, For I will reign alone; I'll have no Partners in my Love, Nor Rivals in my Throne: I'll do by thee as _Nero_ did, When _Rome_ was set on fire; Not only all relief forbid, But to the Hills retire. I'll fold my Arms like Ensigns up, Thy falshood to deplore; And after such a bitter Cup, I'll never love thee more. Yet for the Love I bore thee once, And lest that Love should die; A Marble Tomb of Stone I'll write, The Truth to testifie: That all the Pilgrims passing by, May see and so implore; And stay and read the reason why, I'll never love thee more. _The Second Part of the Trader's Medly: Or, The Cries of_ LONDON. [Music] Come buy my Greens and Flowers fine, Your Houses to adorn; I'll grind your Knives, to please your Wives, And bravely cut your Corns: Ripe Straw-berries here I have to sell, With Taffity-Tarts and Pies; I've Brooms to sell will please you well, If you'll believe your Eyes. Here's Salop brought from Foreign parts, With dainty Pudding-Pyes; And Shrewsbury-Cakes, with Wardens bak'd, I scorn to tell you Lies: With Laces long and Ribbons broad, The best that e'er you see; If you do lack an Almanack, Come buy it now of me.