Dare you haunt our hallow'd green?
None but fairies here are seen.
Down and sleep,
Wake and weep,
Pinch him black, and pinch him blue,
That seeks to steal a lover true!
When you come to hear us sing,
Or to tread our fairy ring,
Pinch him black, and pinch him blue!
O thus our nails shall handle you!
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Dear, if I with guile would gild a true intent,
Heaping flatt'ries that in heart were never meant,
Easily could I then obtain
What now in vain I force;
Falsehood much doth gain,
Truth yet holds the better course.
Love forbid that through dissembling I should thrive,
Or, in praising you, myself of truth deprive!
Let not your high thoughts debase
A simple truth in me;
Great is Beauty's grace,
Truth is yet as fair as she.
Praise is but the wind of pride if it exceeds,
Wealth prized in itself no outward value needs:
Fair you are, and passing fair;
You know it, and 'tis true;
Yet let none despair
But to find as fair as you.
From JOHN DOWLAND's _First Book of Songs or Airs_, 1597.
Dear, if you change, I'll never choose again;
Sweet, if you shrink, I'll never think of love;
Fair, if you fail, I'll judge all beauty vain;
Wise, if too weak, more wits I'll never prove.
Dear, sweet, fair, wise! change, shrink, nor be not weak;
And, on my faith, my faith shall never break.
Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn;
Heaven her bright stars through earth's dim globe shall move;
Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born;
Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove:
Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view,
Ere I prove false to faith or strange to you.
From THOMAS MORLEY's _Canzonets_, 1593.
Do you not know how Love lost first his seeing?
Because with me once gazing
On those fair eyes where all powers have their being,
She with her beauty blazing,
Which death might have revived,
Him of his sight and me of heart deprived.
From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.
Draw on, sweet Night, best friend unto those cares
That do arise from painful melancholy;
My life so ill through want of comfort fares,
That unto thee I consecrate it wholly.
Sweet Night, draw on; my griefs, when they be told
To shades and darkness, find some ease from paining;
And while thou all in silence dost enfold,
I then shall have best time for my complaining.
From HENRY YOULL's _Canzonets to three Voices_, 1608.
Each day of thine, sweet month of May,
Love makes a solemn holyday:
I will perform like duty,
Since thou resemblest every way
Astraea, Queen of Beauty.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Every dame affects good fame, whate'er her doings be,
But true praise is Virtue's bays, which none may wear but she.
Borrowed guise fits not the wise, a simple look is best;
Native grace becomes a face though ne'er so rudely drest.
Now such new-found toys are sold these women to disguise,
That before the year grows old the newest fashion dies.
Dames of yore contended more in goodness to exceed,
Than in pride to be envied for that which least they need.
Little lawn then serve[d] the Pawn, if Pawn at all there were;
Homespun thread and household bread then held out all the year.
But th' attires of women now wear out both house and land;
That the wives in silk may flow, at ebb the good men stand.
Once again, Astraea! then from heaven to earth descend,
And vouchsafe in their behalf these errors to amend.
Aid from heaven must make all even, things are so out of frame;
For let man strive all he can, he needs must please his dame.
Happy man, content that gives and what he gives enjoys!
Happy dame, content that lives and breaks no sleep for toys!
From FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599.
Fair Phyllis I saw sitting all alone,
Feeding her flock near to the mountain-side;
The shepherds knew not whither she was gone,
But after her lover Amyntas hied.
Up and down he wandered, whilst she was missing;
When he found her, oh then they fell a-kissing!
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs_, 1588.
Farewell, false Love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possest;
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.
A poison'd serpent cover'd all with flowers,
Mother of sighs and murderer of repose;
A sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poison'd bait.
A fortress foiled which Reason did defend,
A Siren song, a fever of the mind,
A maze wherein affection finds no end,
A raging cloud that runs before the wind;
A substance like the shadow of the sun,
A goal of grief for which the wisest run.
A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,
A path that leads to peril and mishap,
A true retreat of sorrow and despair,
An idle boy that sleeps in Pleasure's lap;
A deep distrust of that which certain seems,
A hope of that which Reason doubtful deems.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
Farewell, my joy!
Adieu, my love and pleasure!
To sport and toy
We have no longer leisure.
Fa la la!
Farewell, adieu
Until our next consorting!
Sweet love, be true!
And thus we end our sporting.
Fa la la!
From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs or Airs_, 1600.
Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new,
Good pennyworths,--but money cannot move:
I keep a fair but for the Fair to view,--
A beggar may be liberal of love.
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,
The heart is true.
Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again,
My trifles come as treasures from my mind;
It is a precious jewel to be plain;
Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
Of me a grain!
Within this pack pins, points, laces, and gloves,
And divers toys fitting a country fair,
But my heart, wherein duty serves and loves,
Turtles and twins, court's brood, a heavenly pair--
Happy the heart that thinks of no removes!
Of no removes!
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Fire that must flame is with apt fuel fed,
Flowers that will thrive in sunny soil are bred:
How can a heart feel heat that no hope finds?
Or can he love on whom no comfort shines?
Fair, I confess there's pleasure in your sight;
Sweet, you have power, I grant, of all delight;
But what is all to me if I have none?
Churl that you are t'enjoy such wealth alone!
Prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you,
Yet in your looks a heavenly form I view;
Then will I pray again, hoping to find,
As well as in your looks, heaven in your mind.
Saint of my heart, queen of my life and love,
O let my vows thy loving spirit move!
Let me no longer mourn through thy disdain,
But with one touch of grace cure all my pain!
From JOHN WILBYE's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1598.
Flora gave me fairest flowers,
None so fair in Flora's treasure;
These I placed on Phyllis' bowers,
She was pleased, and she my pleasure:
Smiling meadows seem to say,
"Come, ye wantons, here to play."
From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.
Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!
There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:
But, if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again.
All that I sang still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end;
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy:
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Airs_, 1601.
{ouk esti gemas hostis ou cheimazetai,
legousi pantes; kai gamousin eidotes.}
_Anthol. Graec._
Fond wanton youths make love a God
Which after proveth Age's rod;
Their youth, their time, their wit, their art
They spend in seeking of their smart;
And, which of follies is the chief,
They woo their woe, they wed their grief.
All find it so who wedded are,
Love's sweets, they find, enfold sour care;
His pleasures pleasing'st in the eye,
Which tasted once with loathing die:
They find of follies 'tis the chief,
Their woe to woo, to wed their grief.
If for their own content they choose
Forthwith their kindred's love they lose;
And if their kindred they content,
For ever after they repent;
O 'tis of all our follies chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
In bed, what strifes are bred by day,
Our puling wives do open lay;
None friends, none foes we must esteem
But whom they so vouchsafe to deem:
O 'tis of all our follies chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
Their smiles we want if aught they want,
And either we their wills must grant
Or die they will, or are with child;
Their longings must not be beguiled:
O 'tis of all our follies chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
Foul wives are jealous, fair wives false,
Marriage to either binds us thrall;
Wherefore being bound we must obey
And forced be perforce to say,--
Of all our bliss it is the chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Songs of Sundry Natures_, 1589.
From Citheron the warlike boy is fled
And smiling sits upon a Virgin's lap,--
Thereby to train poor misers to the trap,
Whom Beauty draws with fancy to be fed:
And when Desire with eager looks is led,
Then from her eyes
The arrow flies,
Feather'd with flame, arm'd with a golden head.
Her careless thoughts are freed of that flame
Wherewith her thralls are scorched to the heart:
If Love would so, would God the enchanting dart
Might once return and burn from whence it came!
Not to deface of Beauty's work the frame,
But by rebound
It might be found
What secret smart I suffer by the same.
If Love be just, then just is my desire;
And if unjust, why is he call'd a God?
O God, O God, O Just! reserve thy rod
To chasten those that from thy laws retire!
But choose aright (good Love! I thee require)
The golden head,
Not that of lead!
Her heart is frost and must dissolve by fire.
From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1600.