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Within that shedow bower where
my tender heart he first betray’d.

Her trembling hand a letter wrote,
my dearest dear what must I do?
Alas! what have I done, that I
am forsaken and forgot by you?
I could have many a Lord of fame,
who little knows my misery:
I did forsake a worthy Knight,
and it is all for love of 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-hand I’ve been free.

Indeed I’ll not a father be,
unto a bastard you shall bear.
So take no farther 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 that pleasant bower.

The faithless wretch began to think,
how noble was her parents dear;
He said, I sure shall punish’d be,
soon as the story they come to hear.