Now let us make a merry greeting
And thank God Cupid for our meeting:
My heart is full of joy and pleasure
Since thou art here, mine only treasure.
Now will we dance and sport and play
And sing a merry roundelay.
From ROBERT JONES's _Second Book of Airs_, 1601. (Attributed to Sir
Walter Raleigh.)
Now what is love, I pray thee tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasures and repentance dwell;
It is perhaps that sancing-bell[11]
That tolls all in to heaven or hell:
And this is love, as I hear tell.
Now what is love, I pray thee say?
It is a work on holyday,
It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after of their play:
And this is love, as I hear say.
Now what is love, I pray thee feign?
It is a sunshine mixed with rain,
It is a gentle pleasing pain,
A flower that dies and springs again,
It is a No that would full fain:
And this is love as I hear sain.
Yet what is love, I pray thee say?
It is a pretty shady way
As well found out by night as day,
It is a thing will soon decay;
Then take the vantage whilst you may:
And this is love, as I hear say.
Now what is love, I pray thee show?
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for mo,
And he that proves shall find it so:
And this is love, as I well know.
[11] Saint's-bell; the little bell that called to prayers.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o'erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much, speech hath some defence
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
From JOHN WARD's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1613.
O say, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries,
So lovely-ripe, by my rude lips be tasted?
Shall I not pluck (sweet, say not _nay_) those cherries?
O let them not with summer's heat be blasted.
Nature, thou know'st, bestow'd them free on thee;
Then be thou kind--bestow them free on me.
From JOHN FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599.
O stay, sweet love; see here the place of sporting;
These gentle flowers smile sweetly to invite us,
And chirping birds are hitherwards resorting,
Warbling sweet notes only to delight us:
Then stay, dear Love, for though thou run from me,
Run ne'er so fast, yet I will follow thee.
I thought, my love, that I should overtake you;
Sweet heart, sit down under this shadowed tree,
And I will promise never to forsake you,
So you will grant to me a lover's fee.
Whereat she smiled and kindly to me said--
I never meant to live and die a maid.
From THOMAS MORLEY's _Madrigals_, 1594.
O sweet, alas, what say you?
Ay me, that face discloses
The scarlet blush of sweet vermilion roses.
And yet, alas, I know not
If such a crimson staining
Be for love or disdaining;
But if of love it grow not,
Be it disdain conceived
To see us of love's fruits so long bereaved.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
O sweet delight, O more than human bliss
With her to live that ever loving is!
To hear her speak whose words are so well placed
That she by them, as they by her are graced!
Those looks to view that feast the viewer's eye,
How blest is he that may so live and die!
Such love as this the Golden Times did know,
When all did reap and none took care to sow;
Such love as this an endless summer makes,
And all distaste from frail affection takes.
So loved, so blest in my beloved am I:
Which till their eyes ache let iron men envy!
From ROBERT JONES' _Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs_ (1608).
Oft have I mused the cause to find
Why Love in lady's eyes should dwell;
I thought, because himself was blind,
He look'd that they should guide him well:
And sure his hope but seldom fails,
For Love by ladies' eyes prevails.
But time at last hath taught me wit,
Although I bought my wit full dear;
For by her eyes my heart is hit,
Deep is the wound though none appear:
Their glancing beams as darts he throws,
And sure he hath no shafts but those.
I mused to see their eyes so bright,
And little thought they had been fire;
I gazed upon them with delight,
But that delight hath bred desire:
What better place can Love desire
Than that where grow both shafts and fire?
From JOHN ATTYE's _First Book of Airs_, 1622.
On a time the amorous Silvy
Said to her shepherd, 'Sweet, how do you?
Kiss me this once, and then God be wi' you,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me this once and then God be wi' you,
For now the morning draweth near.'
With that, her fairest bosom showing,
Opening her lips, rich perfumes blowing,
She said, 'Now kiss me and be going,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me this once and then be going,
For now the morning draweth near.'
With that the shepherd waked from sleeping,
And, spying where the day was peeping,
He said, 'Now take my soul in keeping,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me, and take my soul in keeping,
Since I must go, now day is near.'
From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
Once did I love and yet I live,
Though love and truth be now forgotten;
Then did I joy, now do I grieve
That holy vows must now be broken.
Hers be the blame that caused it so,
Mine be the grief though it be mickle;[12]
She shall have shame, I cause to know
What 'tis to love a dame so fickle.
Love her that list, I am content
For that chameleon-like she changeth,
Yielding such mists as may prevent
My sight to view her when she rangeth.
Let him not vaunt that gains my loss,
For when that he and time hath proved her,
She may him bring to Weeping-Cross:
I say no more, because I loved her.
[12] Old ed., "little"
From HENRY YOULL's _Canzonets to Three Voices_, 1608.
Once I thought to die for love,
Till I found that women prove
Traitors in their smiling:
They say men unconstant be,
But they themselves Jove change, we see,
And all is but beguiling.