Round-a, round-a, keep your ring:
To the glorious sun we sing,--
Ho, ho!
He that wears the flaming rays,
And th' imperial crown of bays,
Him with shouts and songs we praise--
Ho, ho!
That in his bounty he'd vouchsafe to grace
The humble sylvans and their shaggy race.
From THOMAS MORLEY's _Canzonets_, 1593.
See, see, mine own sweet jewel,
What I have for my darling:
A robin-redbreast and a starling.
These I give both in hope to move thee;
Yet thou say'st I do not love thee.
From WILLIAM CORKINE's _Airs_, 1610.
Shall a frown or angry eye,
Shall a word unfitly placed,
Shall a shadow make me flie
As if I were with tigers chased?
Love must not be so disgraced.
Shall I woo her in despight?
Shall I turn her from her flying?
Shall I tempt her with delight?
Shall I laugh at her denying?
No: beware of lovers' crying.
Shall I then with patient mind
Still attend her wayward pleasure?
Time will make her prove more kind,
Let her coyness then take leisure:
She is worthy such a treasure.
From RICHARD ALISON's _An Hours Recreation in Music_, 1606.
Shall I abide this jesting?
I weep, and she's a-feasting!
O cruel fancy, that so doth blind me
To love one that doth not mind me!
Can I abide this prancing?
I weep, and she's a-dancing!
O cruel fancy, so to betray me!
Thou goest about to slay me.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee
When the evening beams are set?
Shall I not excluded be,
Will you find no feigned let?
Let me not, for pity, more
Tell the long hours at your door.
Who can tell what thief or foe,
In the covert of the night,
For his prey will work my woe,
Or through wicked foul despite?
So may I die unredrest
Ere my long love be possest.
But to let such dangers pass,
Which a lover's thoughts disdain,
'Tis enough in such a place
To attend love's joys in vain:
Do not mock me in thy bed,
While these cold nights freeze me dead.
From ROBERT JONES' _Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs_ (1608).
Shall I look to ease my grief?
No, my sight is lost with eying:
Shall I speak and beg relief?
No, my voice is hoarse with crying:
What remains but only dying?
Love and I of late did part,
But the boy, my peace envying,
Like a Parthian threw his dart
Backward, and did wound me flying:
What remains but only dying?
She whom then I looked on,
My remembrance beautifying,
Stays with me though I am gone,
Gone and at her mercy lying:
What remains but only dying?
Shall I try her thoughts and write?
No I have no means of trying:
If I should, yet at first sight
She would answer with denying:
What remains but only dying?
Thus my vital breath doth waste,
And, my blood with sorrow drying,
Sighs and tears make life to last
For a while, their place supplying:
What remains but only dying?
From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Airs_, 1601.
She whose matchless beauty staineth
What best judgment fair'st maintaineth,
She, O she, my love disdaineth.
Can a creature, so excelling,
Harbour scorn in beauty's dwelling,
All kind pity thence expelling?
Pity beauty much commendeth
And th' embracer oft befriendeth
When all eye-contentment endeth.
Time proves beauty transitory;
Scorn, the stain of beauty's glory,
In time makes the scorner sorry.
None adores the sun declining;
Love all love falls to resigning
When the sun of love leaves shining.
So, when flower of beauty fails thee,
And age, stealing on, assails thee,
Then mark what this scorn avails thee.
Then those hearts, which now complaining
Feel the wounds of thy disdaining,
Shall contemn thy beauty waning.
Yea, thine own heart, now dear-prized,
Shall with spite and grief surprised
Burst to find itself despised.
When like harms have them requited
Who in others' harms delighted,
Pleasingly the wrong'd are righted.
Such revenge my wrongs attending,
Hope still lives on time depending,
By thy plagues thy torrents ending.
From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets to Five Voices_, 1595.
Shoot, false Love! I care not;
Spend thy shafts and spare not!
Fa la la!
I fear not, I, thy might,
And less I weigh thy spite;
All naked I unarm me,--
If thou canst, now shoot and harm me!
So lightly I esteem thee
As now a child I dream thee.
Fa la la la!
Long thy bow did fear[13] me,
While thy pomp did blear me;
Fa la la!
But now I do perceive
Thy art is to deceive;
And every simple lover
All thy falsehood can discover.
Then weep, Love! and be sorry,
For thou hast lost thy glory.
Fa la la la!
[13] Frighten.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_, (circ. 1613).
Silly boy! 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly;
Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly.
Shortly wilt thou mourn when all thy pleasures be bereaved,
Little knows he how to love that never was deceived.
This is thy first maiden-flame that triumphs yet unstained,
All is artless now you speak, not one word is feigned;
All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed,
But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath his Cressid.
Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected,
And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected;
Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holy
And with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly.
Yet be just and constant still, Love may beget a wonder,
Not unlike a summer's frost or winter's fatal thunder:
He that holds his sweetheart true unto his day of dying,
Lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the envying.
From GILES FARNABY's _Canzonets_, 1598.
Simkin said that Sis was fair,
And that he meant to love her;
He set her on his ambling mare,--
All this he did to prove her.
When they came home Sis floted cream
And poured it through a strainer,
But sware that Simkin should have none
Because he did disdain her.
From THOMAS FORD's _Music Of Sundry Kinds_, 1607.
Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye,
If now I be disdained I wish my heart had never known ye.
What? I that loved and you that liked shall we begin to wrangle?
No, no no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle.
If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me
Or if my hands had strayed but a touch, then justly might you leave me.
I asked you leave, you bade me love; is't now a time to chide me?
No no no, I'll love you still what fortune e'er betide me.
The sun whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,
And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder,
Where beauty moves, and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me
There, O there! where'er I go I'll leave my heart behind me.
From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets_, 1595.
Sing we and chant it
While love doth grant it.
Fa la la!
Not long youth lasteth,
And old age hasteth.
Fa la la!
Now is best leisure
To take our pleasure.
Fa la la!
All things invite us
Now to delight us.
Fa la la!
Hence care be packing,
No mirth be lacking.
Fa la la!
Let spare no treasure
To live in pleasure.
Fa la la!
From THOMAS BATESON's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1604.
Sister, awake! close not your eyes!
The day her light discloses,
And the bright morning doth arise
Out of her bed of roses.
See, the clear sun, the world's bright eye,
In at our window peeping:
Lo! how he blusheth to espy
Us idle wenches sleeping.
Therefore, awake! make haste, I say,
And let us, without staying,
All in our gowns of green so gay
Into the park a-maying.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!
For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?
It shall suffice me here to sit and see
Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke:
What sight can more content a lover's mind
Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?
My words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps,
Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;
And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:
Dreams often more than waking passions move.
Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:
That she in peace may wake and pity me.
From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.
So light is love, in matchless beauty shining,
When he revisits Cypris' hallowed bowers,
Two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining,
Can draw his chariot midst the Paphian flowers,
Lightness in love! how ill it fitteth!
So heavy on my heart he sitteth.
From WILLIAM CORKINE's _Airs_, 1610.
Some can flatter, some can feign,
Simple truth shall plead for me;
Let not beauty truth disdain,
Truth is even as fair as she.
But since pairs must equal prove,
Let my strength her youth oppose,
Love her beauty, faith her love;
On even terms so may we close.
Cork or lead in equal weight
Both one just proportion yield,
So may breadth be peis'd[14] with height,
Steepest mount with plainest field.
Virtues have not all one kind,
Yet all virtues merit be,
Divers virtues are combined;
Differing so, deserts agree.
Let then love and beauty meet,
Making one divine concent
Constant as the sounds and sweet,
That enchant the firmament.
[14] Balanced.
From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.
Sweet, come again!
Your happy sight, so much desired
Since you from hence are now retired,
I seek in vain:
Still I must mourn,
And pine in longing pain,
Till you, my life's delight, again
Vouchsafe your wish'd return.
If true desire,
Or faithful vow of endless love,
Thy heart inflamed may kindly move
With equal fire;
O then my joys,
So long distraught, shall rest,
Reposed soft in thy chaste breast,
Exempt from all annoys.
You had the power
My wand'ring thoughts first to restrain,
You first did hear my love speak plain;
A child before,
Now it is grown
Confirmed, do you it[15] keep!
And let 't safe in your bosom sleep,
There ever made your own!
And till we meet,
Teach absence inward art to find,
Both to disturb and please the mind!
Such thoughts are sweet:
And such remain
In hearts whose flames are true;
Then such will I retain, till you
To me return again.
[15] Old ed. "do you keep it."
From WILLIAM CORKINE's _Airs_, 1610.
Sweet Cupid, ripen her desire,
Thy joyful harvest may begin;
If age approach a little nigher,
'Twill be too late to get it in.
Cold Winter storms lay standing Corn,
Which once too ripe will never rise,
And lovers wish themselves unborn,
When all their joys lie in their eyes.
Then, sweet, let us embrace and kiss:
Shall beauty shale[16] upon the ground?
If age bereave us of this bliss,
Then will no more such sport be found.
[16] Shell, husk (as peas).
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
Sweet heart, arise! why do you sleep
When lovers wanton sports do keep?
The sun doth shine, the birds do sing,
And May delight and joy doth bring:
Then join we hands and dance till night,
'Tis pity love should want his right.
From ROBERT JONES' _Musical Dream_, 1609.
Sweet Kate
Of late
Ran away and left me plaining.
Abide!
(I cried)
Or I die with thy disdaining.
Te hee, quoth she;
Make no fool of me;
Men, I know, have oaths at pleasure,
But, their hopes attained,
They bewray they feigned,
And their oaths are kept at leisure.
Unkind,
I find
Thy delight is in tormenting:
Abide!
(I cried)
Or I die with thy consenting.
Te hee, quoth she,
Make no fool of me;
Men, I know, have oaths at pleasure,
But, their hopes attained,
They bewray they feigned,
And their oaths are kept at leisure.
Her words,
Like swords,
Cut my sorry heart in sunder,
Her flouts
With doubts
Kept my heart-affections under.
Te hee, quoth she,
What a fool is he
Stands in awe of once denying!
Cause I had enough
To become more rough,
So I did--O happy trying!
From JOHN WILBYE's _Madrigals_, 1598.
Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,
Subdue her heart who makes me glad and sorry;
Out of thy golden quiver,
Take thou thy strongest arrow
That will through bone and marrow,
And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:
But come behind, for, if she look upon thee,
Alas! poor Love, then thou art woe-begone thee.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
Sweet Love, I will no more abuse thee,
Nor with my voice accuse thee;
But tune my notes unto thy praise
And tell the world Love ne'er decays.
Sweet Love doth concord ever cherish:
What wanteth concord soon must perish.
From ROBERT JONES' _Ultimum Vale, or Third Book of Airs_ (1608).
Sweet Love, my only treasure,
For service long unfeigned
Wherein I nought have gained,
Vouchsafe this little pleasure,
To tell me in what part
My Lady keeps her heart.
If in her hair so slender,
Like golden nets entwined
Which fire and art have fined,
Her thrall my heart I render
For ever to abide
With locks so dainty tied.
If in her eyes she bind it,
Wherein that fire was framed
By which it is inflamed,
I dare not look to find it:
I only wish it sight
To see that pleasant light.
But if her breast have deigned
With kindness to receive it,
I am content to leave it
Though death thereby were gained:
Then, Lady, take your own
That lives by you alone.
From JOHN DOWLAND's _Pilgrim's Solace_, 1612. (The first stanza is found
in a poem of Donne.)
Sweet, stay awhile; why will you rise?
The light you see comes from your eyes;
The day breaks not, it is my heart,
To think that you and I must part.
O stay! or else my joys must die
And perish in their infancy.
Dear, let me die in this fair breast,
Far sweeter than the ph[oe]nix nest.
Love raise Desire by his sweet charms
Within this circle of thine arms!
And let thy blissful kisses cherish
Mine infant joys that else must perish.
From THOMAS VAUTOR's _Songs of divers Airs and Natures_, 1619.
_Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o._
Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight
With feathers like a lady bright,
Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night,
Te whit, te whoo!
Thy note, that forth so freely rolls,
With shrill command the mouse controls,
And sings a dirge for dying souls,
Te whit, te whoo!
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals of Five and Six Parts_, 1600.
Take here my heart, I give it thee for ever!
No better pledge can love to love deliver.
Fear not, my dear, it will not fly away,
For hope and love command my heart to stay.
But if thou doubt, desire will make it range:
Love but my heart, my heart will never change.
From FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599.
Take time while time doth last,
Mark how fair fadeth fast;
Beware if envy reign,
Take heed of proud disdain;
Hold fast now in thy youth,
Regard thy vowed truth,
Lest, when thou waxeth old,
Friends fail and love grow cold.
From _Deuteromelia_, 1609.
The Fly she sat in shamble-row
And shambled with her heels I trow;
And then came in Sir Cranion
With legs so long and many a one;
And said "Jove speed, dame Fly, dame Fly":
"Marry, you be welcome, Sir," quoth she:
"The master Humble Bee hath sent me to thee
To wit and if you will his true love be."
But she said "Nay, that may not be,
For I must have the Butterfly,
For and a greater lord there may not be."
But at the last consent did she.
And there was bid to this wedding
All Flies in the field and Worms creeping.
The Snail she came crawling all over the plain,
With all her jolly trinkets in her train.
Ten Bees there came, all clad in gold,
And all the rest did them behold;
But the Thornbud refused this sight to see,
And to a cow-plat away flies she.
But where now shall this wedding be?--
For and hey-nonny-no in an old ivy-tree.
And where now shall we bake our bread?--
For and hey-nonny-no in an old horse-head.
And where now shall we brew our ale?--
But even within one walnut-shale.
And also where shall we our dinner make?--
But even upon a galled horse-back:
For there we shall have good company
With humbling and bumbling and much melody.
When ended was this wedding-day,
The Bee he took his Fly away,
And laid her down upon the marsh
Between one marigold and the long grass.
And there they begot good master gnat
And made him the heir of all,--that's flat.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Airs or Fantastic Spirits_, 1608.
_Audivere, Lyce_.--HORACE.
The gods have heard my vows,
Fond Lyce, whose fair brows
Wont scorn with such disdain
My love, my tears, my pain.
Fa la!
But now those spring-tide roses
Are turn'd to winter-posies,
To rue and thyme and sage,
Fitting thy shrivell'd age.
Fa la!
Now, youths, with hot desire
See, see, that flameless fire,
Which erst your hearts so burned,
Quick into ashes turned.
Fa la!