I only am the man
Among all married men
That do not wish the priest,
To be unlinked again.
And though my shoe did wring
I would not make my moan,
Nor think my neighbours' chance
More happy than mine own.
Yet court I not my wife,
But yield observance due,
Being neither fond nor cross,
Nor jealous nor untrue.
From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs or Airs_, 1600.
I saw my Lady weep,
And sorrow proud to be advanced so
In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.
Her face was full of woe,
But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair,
And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing;
Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare;
She made her sighs to sing,
And all things with so sweet a sadness move
As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
O fairer than aught else
The world can show, leave off in time to grieve.
Enough, enough; your joyful look excels;
Tears kill the heart, believe.
O strive not to be excellent in woe,
Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
From JOHN WILBYE's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1598.
I sung sometime my thoughts and fancy's pleasure,
Where I did list, or time served best and leisure;
While Daphne did invite me
To supper once, and drank to me to spite me.
I smiled, but yet did doubt her,
And drank where she had drunk before, to flout her;
But, O! while I did eye her,
Mine eyes drank love, my lips drank burning fire.
From ORLANDO GIBBONS' _First Set of Madrigals_, 1612.
I weigh not Fortune's frown nor smile,
I joy not much in earthly joys,
I seek not state, I reak [_sic_] not style,
I am not fond of Fancy's toys.
I rest so pleased with what I have
I wish no more, no more I crave.
I tremble not at noise of war,
I quake not at the thunder's crack,
I shrink not at a blazing star,
I sound not at the news of wreck,
I fear no loss, I hope no gain,
I envy none, I none disdain.
I see Ambition never pleased,
I see some Tantals starve in store,
I see gold's dropsy seldom eased,
I see each Midas gape for more:
I neither want nor yet abound,
Enough's a feast, content is crowned.
I feign not friendship where I hate,
I fawn not on the great for grace,
I prize, I praise a mean estate
Ne yet too lofty, nor too base,
This is all my choice, my cheer--
A mind content and conscience clear.
From THOMAS MORLEY's _Madrigals to Four Voices_, 1600.
I will no more come to thee
That flout'st me when I woo thee;
Still ty hy thou criest
And all my lovely rings and pins denyest.
O say, alas, what moves thee
To grieve him so that loves thee?
Leave, alas, then, ah leave tormenting
And give my burning some relenting.
From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
If fathers knew but how to leave
Their children wit as they do wealth,
And could constrain them to receive
That physic which brings perfect health,
The world would not admiring stand
A woman's face and woman's hand.
Women confess they must obey,
We men will needs be servants still;
We kiss their hands, and what they say
We must commend, be't ne'er so ill:
Thus we, like fools, admiring stand
Her pretty foot and pretty hand.
We blame their pride, which we increase
By making mountains of a mouse;
We praise because we know we please;
Poor women are too credulous
To think that we admiring stand
Or foot, or face, or foolish hand.
From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.
If I urge my kind desires,
She, unkind, doth them reject,
Women's hearts are painted fires,
To deceive them that affect.
I alone love's fires include:
She alone doth them delude.
She hath often vowed her love:
But alas no fruit I find.
That her fires are false I prove
Yet, in her, no fault I find.
I was thus unhappy born,
And ordained to be her scorn.
Yet if human care or pain,
May the heavenly order change;
She will hate her own disdain,
And repent she was so strange:
For a truer heart than I,
Never lived, nor loved to die.
From JOHN DOWLAND's _First Book of Songs and Airs_, 1597.
If my complaints could passions move,
Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong;
My passions were enough to prove
That my despairs had governed me too long.
O Love, I live and die in thee!
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me.
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks,
Yet thou dost hope when I despair;
My heart for thy unkindness breaks;
Thou say'st thou can'st my harms repair,
And when I hope thou mak'st me hope in vain;
Yet for redress thou let'st me still complain.
Can Love be rich, and yet I want?
Is Love my judge, and yet am I condemned?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant;
Thou made a god, and yet thy power contemned!
That I do live, it is thy power;
That I desire it is thy worth.
If love doth make men's lives too sour,
Let me not love, nor live henceforth!
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith,
That you, that of my fall may hearers be,
May hear Despair, which truly saith
"I was more true to Love, than Love to me."
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
If thou long'st so much to learn, sweet boy, what 'tis to love,
Do but fix thy thoughts on me and thou shalt quickly prove:
Little suit at first shall win
Way to thy abashed desire,
But then will I hedge thee in,
Salamander-like, with fire.
With thee dance I will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance bear;
We the grovy hills will climb and play the wantons there;
Other whiles we'll gather flowers,
Lying dallying on the grass;
And thus our delightful hours,
Full of waking dreams, shall pass.
When thy joys were thus at height, my love should turn from thee,
Old acquaintance then should grow as strange, as strange might be:
Twenty rivals thou shouldst find,
Breaking all their hearts for me,
While to all I'll prove more kind
And more forward than to thee.
Thus thy silly youth, enraged, would soon my love defy,
But, alas, poor soul, too late! clipt wings can never fly.
Those sweet hours which we had past,
Called to thy mind, thy heart would burn;
And couldst thou fly ne'er so fast,
They would make thee straight return.
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets and Songs_, 1588.
If women could be fair and never fond,
Or that their beauty might continue still,
I would not marvel though they made men bond
By service long to purchase their goodwill:
But when I see how frail these creatures are,
I laugh that men forget themselves so far.
To mark what choice they make and how they change,
How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still;
And how, like haggards wild, about they range,
And scorning reason follow after will![6]
Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist
And let them fly (fair fools!) which way they list?
Yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when nothing else can please:
And train them on to yield by subtle oath
The sweet content that gives such humour ease:
And then we say, when we their follies try,
"To play with fools, O, what a fool was I!"
[6] So Oliphant.--Old ed., "Scorning after reason to follow will."
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Songs, and Sonnets_, 1611.
In crystal towers and turrets richly set
With glitt'ring gems that shine against the sun,
In regal rooms of jasper and of jet,
Content of mind not always likes to won;[7]
But oftentimes it pleaseth her to stay
In simple cotes enclosed with walls of clay.
[7] Dwell.
From JOHN COPRARIO's _Funeral Tears, etc._, 1606.
In darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be,
The roof despair to bar all cheerful light from me,
The walls of marble black that moistened still shall weep,
My music hellish jarring sounds to banish friendly sleep:
Thus wedded to my woes, and bedded in my tomb
O let me dying live till death doth come.
My dainties grief shall be, and tears my poisoned wine,
My sighs the air through which my panting heart shall pine,
My robes my mind shall suit exceeding blackest night,
My study shall be tragic thoughts sad fancy to delight,
Pale ghosts and frightful shades shall my acquaintance be:
O thus, my hapless joy, I haste to thee.
From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594.
In midst of woods or pleasant grove,
Where all sweet birds do sing,
Methought I heard so rare a sound
Which made the heavens to ring.
The charm was good, the noise full sweet,
Each bird did play his part;
And I admired to hear the same,
Joy sprang into my heart.
The black bird made the sweetest sound,
Whose tunes did far excel;
Full pleasantly, and most profound
Was all things placed well.
Thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird,
Done with so good a grace,
Extolls thy name, prefers the same
Abroad in every place.
Thy music grave, bedecked well
With sundry points of skill,
Bewrays thy knowledge excellent
Ingrafted in thy will.
My tongue shall speak, my pen shall write
In praise of thee to tell;
The sweetest bird that ever was,
In friendly sort farewell.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
In pride of May
The fields are gay,
The birds do sweetly sing. Fa la la!
So Nature would
That all things should
With joy begin the spring. Fa la la!
Then, Lady dear,
Do you appear
In beauty like the spring: Fa la la!
I dare well say
The birds that day
More cheerfully will sing. Fa la la!
From ROBERT JONES's _Musical Dream_, 1609.
{Pheugein de ton Erota kenos ponos.}--_Archias_.
In Sherwood lived stout Robin Hood,
An archer great, none greater,
His bow and shafts were sure and good,
Yet Cupid's were much better;
Robin could shoot at many a hart and miss,
Cupid at first could hit a heart of his.
Hey, jolly Robin Hood, ho jolly Robin Hood,
Love finds out me
As well as thee,
To follow me to the green-wood.
A noble thief was Robin Hood,
Wise was he could deceive him;
Yet Marian in his bravest mood
Could of his heart bereave him:
No greater thief lies hidden under skies,
Than beauty closely lodged in women's eyes.
Hey, jolly Robin, &c.
An outlaw was this Robin Hood,
His life free and unruly,
Yet to fair Marian bound he stood
And love's debt paid her duly:
Whom curb of strictest law could not hold in,
Love[8] to obedience with a wink could win.
Hey, jolly Robin, &c.
Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood,
Leave we the woods behind us,
Love-passions must not be withstood,
Love everywhere will find us.
I lived in field and town, and so did he;
I got me to the woods, Love followed me.
Hey, jolly Robin, &c.
[8] Old ed.,--"Love with obeyednes and a winke could winne."
From MICHAEL ESTE's _Madrigals of three, four and five parts_, 1604. (By
Nicholas Breton. Originally published in 1591.)
In the merry month of May,
On a morn by break of day,
Forth I walk'd by the wood-side,
Whereas May was in her pride:
There I spyed all alone
Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love and she would not.
She said, never man was true;
He said, none was false to you.
He said, he had loved her long;
She said, Love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then;
She said, maids must kiss no men
Till they did for good and all;
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth
Never lov'd a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as seely shepherds use
When they will not love abuse,
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gay
Was made the Lady of the May.
From THOMAS GREAVES' _Songs of Sundry Kinds_, 1604.
Inconstant Laura makes me death to crave,
For wanting her I must embrace my grave;
A little grave will ease my malady
And set me free from love's fell tyranny.
Intomb me then and show her where I lie,
And say I died through her inconstancy.
From HENRY LICHFILD's _First Set of Madrigals_, 1613.
Injurious hours, whilst any joy doth bless me,
With speedy wings you fly and so release me;
But if some sorrow do oppress my heart,
You creep as if you never meant to part.
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Songs of Sundry Natures_, 1589.
Is Love a boy,--what means he then to strike?
Or is he blind,--why will he be a guide?
Is he a man,--why doth he hurt his like?
Is he a God,--why doth he men deride?
No one of these, but one compact of all:
A wilful boy, a man still dealing blows,
Of purpose blind to lead men to their thrall,
A god that rules unruly--God, he knows.
Boy, pity me that am a child again;
Blind, be no more my guide to make me stray;
Man, use thy might to force away my pain;
God, do me good and lead me to my way;
And if thou beest a power to me unknown,
Power of my life, let here thy grace be shown.
From _Melismata_, 1611.