Long have I lived in Court,
Yet learned not all this while
To sell poor suiters smoke,
Nor where I hate to smile;
Superiors to adore,
Inferiors to despise,
To flie from such as fall,
To follow such as rise:
To cloak a poor desire
Under a rich array,
Nor to aspire by Vice,
Though 'twere the quicker way.
From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
Love is a bable,
No man is able
To say 'tis this or 'tis that;
So full of passions
Of sundry fashions,
'Tis like I cannot tell what.
Love's fair in the cradle,
Foul in the fable,
'Tis either too cold or too hot;
An arrant liar,
Fed by desire,
It is and yet it is not.
Love is a fellow
Clad oft in yellow,[10]
The canker-worm of the mind,
A privy mischief,
And such a sly thief
No man knows which way to find.
Love is a wonder
That's here and yonder,
As common to one as to moe;
A monstrous cheater,
Every man's debtor;
Hang him and so let him go.
[10] The colour of jealousy.
From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.
Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part:
No, nor for a constant heart!
For these may fail or turn to ill:
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why!
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.
From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
Love's god is a boy,
None but cowherds regard him,
His dart is a toy,
Great opinion hath marred him:
The fear of the wag
Hath made him so brag;
Chide him, he'll flie thee
And not come nigh thee.
Little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random,
For if you hit me, slave, I'll tell your grandam.
Fond love is a child
And his compass is narrow,
Young fools are beguiled
With the fame of his arrow;
He dareth not strike
If his stroke do mislike:
Cupid, do you hear me?
Come not too near me.
Little boy, pretty knave, hence I beseech you,
For if you hit me, knave, in faith I'll breech you.
Th' ape loves to meddle
When he finds a man idle,
Else is he a-flirting
Where his mark is a-courting;
When women grow true
Come teach me to sue,
Then I'll come to thee
Pray thee and woo thee.
Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger,
For if you hit me, knave, I'll call thee, beggar.
From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly
Far from base earth, but not to mount too high;
For true pleasure
Lives in measure,
Which if men forsake,
Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.
But my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,
Enamoured sought to woo the sun's fair light,
Whose rich brightness
Moved their lightness
To aspire so high
That all scorched and consumed with fire now drown'd in woe they lie.
And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,
For Love did know that their desires were true;
Though Fate frowned,
And now drowned
They in sorrow dwell,
It was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
"Maids are simple," some men say,
"They forsooth will trust no men."
But should they men's wills obey,
Maids were very simple then.
Truth a rare flower now is grown,
Few men wear it in their hearts;
Lovers are more easily known
By their follies than deserts.
Safer may we credit give
To a faithless wandering Jew,
Than a young man's vows believe
When he swears his love is true.
Love they make a poor blind child,
But let none trust such as he;
Rather than to be beguiled,
Ever let me simple be.
From _Melismata_, 1611.
THE BELLMAN's SONG.
Maids to bed and cover coal;
Let the mouse out of her hole;
Crickets in the chimney sing
Whilst the little bell doth ring;
If fast asleep, who can tell
When the clapper hits the bell?
From MARTIN PEERSON's _Mottects or Grave Chamber-Music_, 1630.
More than most fair, full of all heavenly fire,
Kindled above to shew the Maker's glory;
Beauty's first-born, in whom all powers conspire
To write the Graces' life and Muses' story;
If in my heart all nymphs else be defaced,
Honour the shrine where you alone are placed.
Thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits,
True character of honour in perfection,
Thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits,
And glorious prison of men's pure affection:
If in my heart all nymphs else be defaced
Honour the shrine where you alone are placed.
From THOMAS VAUTOR's _Songs of divers Airs and Natures_, 1619.
Mother, I will have a husband,
And I will have him out of hand!
Mother, I will sure have one
In spite of her that will have none.
John-a-Dun should have had me long ere this:
He said I had good lips to kiss.
Mother, I will sure have one
In spite of her that will have none.
For I have heard 'tis trim when folks do love;
By good Sir John I swear now I will prove.
For, Mother, I will sure have one
In spite of her that will have none.
To the town, therefore, will I gad
To get me a husband, good or bad.
Mother, I will sure have one
In spite of her that will have none.
From MICHAEL ESTE's _Madrigals of Three, Four and Five Parts_, 1604.
My hope a counsel with my heart
Hath long desired to be,
And marvels much so dear a friend
Is not retain'd by me.
She doth condemn my haste
In passing the estate
Of my whole life into their hands
Who nought repays but hate:
And not sufficed with this, she says,
I did release the right
Of my enjoyed liberties
Unto your beauteous sight.
From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
My love bound me with a kiss
That I should no longer stay;
When I felt so sweet a bliss
I had less power to part away:
Alas, that women doth not know
Kisses make men loath to go.
Yes, she knows it but too well,
For I heard when Venus' dove
In her ear did softly tell
That kisses were the seals of love:
O muse not then though it be so,
Kisses make men loath to go.
Wherefore did she thus inflame
My desires heat my blood,
Instantly to quench the same
And starve whom she had given food?
I the common sense can show,
Kisses make men loath to go.
Had she bid me go at first
It would ne'er have grieved my heart,
Hope delayed had been the worst;
But ah to kiss and then to part!
How deep it struck, speak, gods, you know
Kisses make men loath to go.
From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
My Love is neither young nor old,
Not fiery-hot nor frozen-cold,
But fresh and fair as springing briar
Blooming the fruit of love's desire;
Not snowy-white nor rosy-red,
But fair enough for shepherd's bed;
And such a love was never seen
On hill or dale or country-green.
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs_, 1588.
My mind to me a kingdom is:
Such perfect joy therein I find
That it excels all other bliss
That God or nature hath assigned.
Though much I want, that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
No princely port, nor wealthy store,
No force to win a victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,
No shape to win a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall!
For why? my mind despise them all.
I see that plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soonest fall;
I see that such as are aloft,
Mishap doth threaten most of all.
These get with toil, and keep with fear:
Such cares my mind can never bear.
I press to bear no haughty sway,
I wish no more than may suffice,
I do no more, than well I may;
Look, what I want, my mind supplies.
Lo, thus I triumph like a king,
My mind content with any thing.
I laugh not at another's loss,
Nor grudge not at another's gain.
No worldly waves my mind can toss,
I brook that is another's bane;
I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend,
I loathe not life nor dread mine end.
My wealth is health and perfect ease;
And conscience clear my chief defence;
I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence,
Thus do I live, thus will I die:
Would all did so as well as I!
From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594.
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares!
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain!
My crop of corn is but a field of tares!
And all my good is but vain hope of gain!
My life is fled, and yet I saw no sun!
And now I live, and now my life is done!
The Spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung!
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green!
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young!
I saw the World and yet I was not seen!
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun!
And now I live, and now my life is done.
From CAMPION AND ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.
_Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus._
My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
And though the sager sort our deeds reprove
Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive;
But, soon as once is set our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armour should not be;
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love:
But fools do live and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.
When timely death my life and fortunes ends,
Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends;
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come
And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb:
And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light
And crown with love my ever-during night.
From JOHN DOWLAND's _First Book of Songs or Airs_, 1597.
My Thoughts are winged with Hopes, my Hopes with Love:
Mount Love unto the moon in clearest night,
And say, as she doth in the heavens move,
In earth so wanes and waxeth my delight:
And whisper this, but softly, in her ears,
"Hope oft doth hang the head and Trust shed tears."
And you, my Thoughts, that some mistrust do carry,
If for mistrust my mistress do you blame,
Say, though you alter, yet you do not vary,
As she doth change and yet remain the same;
Distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect,
And Love is sweetest seasoned with Suspect.
If she for this with clouds do mask her eyes
And make the heavens dark with her disdain,
With windy sighs disperse them in the skies
Or with thy tears dissolve them into rain.
Thoughts, Hopes, and Love, return to me no more
Till Cynthia shine as she hath done before.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Never love unless you can
Bear with all the faults of man:
Men sometimes will jealous be
Though but little cause they see;
And hang the head as discontent,
And speak what straight they will repent.
Men that but one saint adore
Make a show of love to more;
Beauty must be scorned in none,
Though but truly served in one:
For what is courtship but disguise?
True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
Men, when their affairs require,
Must awhile themselves retire;
Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
And not ever sit and talk:
If these and such-like you can bear,
Then like, and love, and never fear!
From JOHN FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599. (Verses by
Samuel Daniel.)
Now each creature joys the other,
Passing happy days and hours:
One bird reports unto another
By the fall of silver showers;
Whilst the Earth, our common Mother,
Hath her bosom decked with flowers.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals_, 1597.
Now every tree renews his summer's green,
Why is your heart in winter's garments clad?
Your beauty says my love is summer's queen,
But your cold love like winter makes me sad:
Then either spring with buds of love again
Or else congeal my thoughts with your disdain.
From _Pammelia_, 1609.
Now God be with old Simeon,
For he made cans for many-a-one,
And a good old man was he;
And Jinkin was his journeyman,
And he could tipple of every can,
And thus he said to me:
"To whom drink you?"
"Sir knave, to you."
Then hey-ho, jolly Jinkin!
I spie a knave in drinking.
From ROBERT JONES' _Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs_ (1608).
Now have I learn'd with much ado at last
By true disdain to kill desire;
This was the mark at which I shot so fast,
Unto this height I did aspire:
Proud Love, now do thy worst and spare not,
For thee and all thy shafts I care not.
What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind,
What life to quicken dead desire?
I count thy words and oaths as light as wind,
I feel no heat in all thy fire:
Go, change thy bow and get a stronger,
Go, break thy shafts and buy thee longer.
In vain thou bait'st thy hook with beauty's blaze,
In vain thy wanton eyes allure;
These are but toys for them that love to gaze,
I know what harm thy looks procure:
Some strange conceit must be devised,
Or thou and all thy skill despised.
From THOMAS FORD's _Music of Sundry Kinds_, 1607.
Now I see thy looks were feigned
Quickly lost, and quickly gained;
Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers,
Heart inconstant, light as feathers,
Tongue untrusty, subtle sighted,
Wanton will with change delighted.
Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
Of thine eye I made my mirror,
From thy beauty came my error,
All thy words I counted witty,
All thy sighs I deemed pity,
Thy false tears, that me aggrieved
First of all my trust deceived.
Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
Feigned acceptance when I asked,
Lovely words with cunning masked,
Holy vows, but heart unholy;
Wretched man, my trust was folly;
Lily white, and pretty winking,
Solemn vows but sorry thinking.
Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
Now I see, O seemly cruel,
Others warm them at my fuel,
Wit shall guide me in this durance
Since in love is no assurance:
Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure,
Beauty is a fading treasure.
Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
Cupid, plague thee for thy treason!
Prime youth lasts not, age will follow
And make white those tresses yellow;
Wrinkled face, for looks delightful,
Shall acquaint the dame despiteful.
And when time shall date thy glory,
Then too late thou wilt be sorry.
Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
Now is my Chloris fresh as May,
Clad all in green and flowers gay.
Fa la la!
O might I think August were near
That harvest joy might soon appear.
Fa la la!
But she keeps May throughout the year,
And August never comes the near.
Fa la la!
Yet will I hope, though she be May,
August will come another day.
Fa la la!
From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets_, 1595.
Now is the month of maying,
When merry lads are playing
Each with his bonny lass
Upon the greeny grass.
Fa la la!
The spring clad all in gladness
Doth laugh at winter's sadness,
And to the bagpipe's sound
The nymphs tread out their ground.
Fa la la!
Fie then, why sit we musing,
Youth's sweet delight refusing?
Say, dainty nymphs, and speak,
Shall we play barley-break.
Fa la la!
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Now let her change! and spare not!
Since she proves strange, I care not!
Feigned love charmed so my delight,
That still I doted on her sight.
But she is gone! new joys embracing,
And my distress disgracing.
When did I err in blindness?
Or vex her with unkindness?
If my cares served her alone,
Why is she thus untimely gone?
True love abides to th' hour of dying:
False love is ever flying.
False! then farewell for ever!
Once false proves faithful never!
He that boasts now of thy love,
Shall soon, my present fortunes prove
Were he as fair as bright Adonis:
Faith is not had where none is!