Chapter II: Part 2

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.

TO MASTER HUGH HOLLAND.

From Fame's desire, from Love's delight retired,
In these sad groves an hermit's life I lead:
And those false pleasures, which I once admired,
With sad remembrance of my fall, I dread.
To birds, to trees, to earth, impart I this;
For she less secret, and as senseless is.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!

Experience which repentance only brings,
Doth bid me, now, my heart from Love estrange!
Love is disdained when it doth look at Kings;
And Love low placed base and apt to change.
There Power doth take from him his liberty,
Her[e] Want of Worth makes him in cradle die.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!

You men that give false worship unto Love,
And seek that which you never shall obtain;
The endless work of Sisyphus you prove,
Whose end is this, to know you strive in vain.
Hope and Desire, which now your idols be,
You needs must lose, and feel Despair with me.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!

You woods, in you the fairest Nymphs have walked:
Nymphs at whose sights all hearts did yield to love.
You woods, in whom dear lovers oft have talked,
How do you now a place of mourning prove?
Wanstead! my Mistress saith this is the doom.
Thou art love's child-bed, nursery, and tomb.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Give Beauty all her right!
She's not to one form tied;
Each shape yields fair delight
Where her perfections bide:
Helen, I grant, might pleasing be,
And Ros'mond was as sweet as she.

Some the quick eye commends,
Some swelling[4] lips and red;
Pale looks have many friends,
Through sacred sweetness bred:
Meadows have flowers that pleasures move,
Though roses are the flowers of love.

Free beauty is not bound
To one unmoved clime;
She visits every ground
And favours every time.
Let the old loves with mine compare,
My sovereign is as sweet and fair.

[4] Old ed. "smelling."

From JOHN DOWLAND's _First Book of Songs or Airs_, 1597.

Go crystal tears! like to the morning showers,
And sweetly weep into thy lady's breast!
And as the dews revive the drooping flowers,
So let your drops of pity be addrest!
To quicken up the thoughts of my desert,
Which sleeps too sound whilst I from her depart.

Haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breath
Dissolve the ice of her indurate heart!
Whose frozen rigour, like forgetful Death,
Feels never any touch of my desert.
Yet sighs and tears to her I sacrifice
Both from a spotless heart and patient eyes.

From EGERTON MS., 2013. _The Verses were set to Music by Dr. John Wilson._

Go, turn away those cruel eyes,
For they have quite undone me;
They used not so to tyrannize
When first those glances won me.

But 'tis the custom of you men,--
False men thus to deceive us!
To love but till we love again,
And then again to leave us.

Go, let alone my heart and me,
Which thou hast thus affrighted!
I did not think I could by thee
Have been so ill requited.

But now I find 'tis I must prove
That men have no compassion;
When we are won, you never love
Poor women, but for fashion,

Do recompense my love with hate,
And kill my heart! I'm sure
Thou'lt one day say, when 'tis too late,
Thou never hadst a truer.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Second Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Good men show! if you can tell,
Where doth Human Pity dwell?
Far and near her I would seek,
So vexed with sorrow is my breast.
"She," they say, "to all, is meek;
And only makes th' unhappy blest."

Oh! if such a saint there be,
Some hope yet remains for me:
Prayer or sacrifice may gain
From her implored grace, relief;
To release me of my pain,
Or at the least to ease my grief.

Young am I, and far from guile,
The more is my woe the while:
Falsehood, with a smooth disguise,
My simple meaning hath abused:
Casting mists before mine eyes,
By which my senses are confused.

Fair he is, who vowed to me,
That he only mine would be;
But alas, his mind is caught
With every gaudy bait he sees:
And, too late, my flame is taught
That too much kindness makes men freeze.

From me, all my friends are gone,
While I pine for him alone;
And not one will rue my case,
But rather my distress deride:
That I think, there is no place,
Where Pity ever yet did bide.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Airs or Fantastic Spirits_, 1608.

Ha ha! ha ha! this world doth pass
Most merrily, I'll be sworn;
For many an honest Indian ass
Goes for an Unicorn.
Farra, diddle dino;
This is idle fino.

Ty hye! ty hye! O sweet delight!
He tickles this age that can
Call Tullia's ape a marmosyte
And Leda's goose a swan.
Farra diddle dino;
This is idle fino.

So so! so so! fine English days!
When false play's no reproach:
For he that doth the coachman praise,
May safely use the coach.
Farra diddle dino;
This is idle fino.

From ROBERT JONES's _Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs_ (1608).

Happy he
Who, to sweet home retired,
Shuns glory so admired,
And to himself lives free,
Whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skies
Falls down with foul disgrace before he rise.

Let who will
The active life commend
And all his travels bend
Earth with his fame to fill:
Such fame, so forced, at last dies with his death,
Which life maintain'd by others' idle breath.

My delights,
To dearest home confined,
Shall there make good my mind
Not aw'd with fortune's spites:
High trees heaven blasts, winds shake and honors[5] fell,
When lowly plants long time in safety dwell.

All I can,
My worldly strife shall be
They one day say of me
'He died a good old man':
On his sad soul a heavy burden lies
Who, known to all, unknown to himself dies.

[5] Qy. "hammers"?

From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.

Happy, O! happy he, who not affecting
The endless toils attending worldly cares,
With mind reposed, all discontents rejecting,
In silent peace his way to heaven prepares,
Deeming this life a scene, the world a stage
Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.

From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's _First Set Of Madrigals_, 1613.

Have I found her? O rich finding!
Goddess-like for to behold,
Her fair tresses seemly binding
In a chain of pearl and gold.
Chain me, chain me, O most fair,
Chain me to thee with that hair!

From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594.

Heigh ho! chill go to plough no more!
Sit down and take thy rest;
Of golden groats I have full store
To flaunt it with the best.
But I love and I love, and who thinks you?
The finest lass that e'er you knew,
Which makes me sing when I should cry
Heigh ho! for love I die.

From JOHN MAYNARD's _Twelve Wonders of the World_, 1611.

THE BACHELOR.

How many things as yet
Are dear alike to me!
The field, the horse, the dog,
Love, arms, or liberty.

I have no wife as yet
That I may call mine own;
I have no children yet
That by my name are known.

Yet, if I married were,
I would not wish to thrive
If that I could not tame
The veriest shrew alive.

From THOMAS FORD's _Music of Sundry Kinds_, 1607.

How shall I then describe my Love?
When all men's skilful art
Is far inferior to her worth,
To praise the unworthiest part.

She's chaste in looks, mild in her speech,
In actions all discreet,
Of nature loving, pleasing most,
In virtue all complete.

And for her voice a Philomel,
Her lips may all lips scorn;
No sun more clear than is her eye,
In brightest summer morn.

A mind wherein all virtues rest
And take delight to be,
And where all virtues graft themselves
In that most fruitful tree:

A tree that India doth not yield,
Nor ever yet was seen,
Where buds of virtue always spring,
And all the year grow green.

That country's blest wherein she grows,
And happy is that rock
From whence she springs: but happiest he
That grafts in such a stock.

From HENRY LICHFILD's _First Set of Madrigals_, 1613.

I always loved to call my lady Rose,
For in her cheeks roses do sweetly glose,
And from her lips she such sweet odours threw
As roses do 'gainst Ph[oe]bus' morning-view:
But when I thought to pull't, hope was bereft me,--
My rose was gone and naught but prickles left me.

From _Melismata_, 1611.

A WOOING SONG OF A YEOMAN OF KENT'S SON.

I have house and land in Kent,
And if you'll love me, love me now;
Twopence-halfpenny is my rent,
I cannot come every day to woo.
Chorus. _Twopence-halfpenny is his rent,
And he cannot come every day to woo._

Ich am my vather's eldest zonne,
My mother eke doth love me well,
For ich can bravely clout my shoone,
And ich full well can ring a bell.
Chorus. _For he can bravely clout his shoone,
And he full well can ring a bell._

My vather he gave me a hog,
My mouther she gave me a zow;
I have a God-vather dwels thereby,
And he on me bestowed a plow.
Chorus. _He has a God-vather dwells thereby,
And he on him bestowed a plough._

One time I gave thee a paper of pins,
Another time a tawdry-lace;
And if thou wilt not grant me love,
In truth ich die bevore thy face.
Chorus. _And if thou wilt not grant his love,
In truth he'll die bevore thy vace._

Ich have been twice our Whitson-lord,
Ich have had ladies many vair,
And eke thou hast my heart in hold
And in my mind zeems passing rare.
Chorus. _And eke thou hast his heart in hold
And in his mind seems passing rare._

Ich will put on my best white slops
And ich will wear my yellow hose,
And on my head a good grey hat,
And in't ich stick a lovely rose.
Chorus. _And on his head a good grey hat,
And in't he'll stick a lovely rose._

Wherefore cease off, make no delay,
And if you'll love me, love me now;
Or else ich zeek zome oderwhere,
For I cannot come every day to woo.
Chorus. _Or else he'll zeek zome oderwhere,
For he cannot come every day to woo._

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs of Sadness and Piety_, 1588.

I joy not in no earthly bliss,
I force not Cr[oe]sus' wealth a straw;
For care I know not what it is
I fear not Fortune's fatal law:
My mind is such as may not move
For beauty bright nor force of love.

I wish but what I have at will,
I wander not to seek for more;
I like the plain, I climb no hill;
In greatest storms I sit on shore
And laugh at them that toil in vain
To get what must be lost again.

I kiss not where I wish to kill;
I feign not love where most I hate;
I break no sleep to win my will;
I wait not at the mighty's gate;
I scorn no poor, nor fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.

The court and cart I like nor loath;
Extremes are counted worst of all;
The golden mean between them both
Doth surest sit and fears no fall.
This is my choice: for why? I find
No wealth is like the quiet mind.

From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.

I live, and yet methinks I do not breathe;
I thirst and drink, I drink and thirst again;
I sleep and yet do dream I am awake;
I hope for that I have; I have and want:
I sing and sigh; I love and hate at once.
O, tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar
Doth cause in store such want, in peace such war?

_Risposta._
There is a jewel which no Indian mines
Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty;
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain:
Seldom it come, to few from heaven sent,
That much in little, all in nought,--Content.

From JOHN MAYNARD's _Twelve Wonders of the World_, 1611.

THE MAID.

I marriage would forswear,
But that I hear men tell
That she that dies a maid
Must lead an ape in hell.

Therefore, if fortune come,
I will not mock and play
Nor drive the bargain on
Till it be driven away.

Titles and lands I like,
Yet rather fancy can
A man that wanteth gold
Than gold that wants a man.

From JOHN MAYNARD's _Twelve Wonders of the World_, 1611.

THE MARRIED MAN.

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.

THE MARRIAGE OF THE FROG AND THE MOUSE.

It was the frog in the well,
Humbledum, humbledum,
And the merry mouse in the mill,
Tweedle, tweedle, twino.

The frog would a wooing ride
Sword and buckler by his side.

When he upon his high horse set,
His boots they shone as black as jet.

When he came to the merry mill-pin,--
"Lady Mouse, been you within?"

Then came out the dusty mouse:
"I am Lady of this house:

Hast thou any mind of me?"
"I have e'en great mind of thee?"

"Who shall this marriage make?"
"Our Lord which is the rat,"

"What shall we have to our supper?"
"Three beans in a pound of butter?"

When supper they were at,
The frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat;

Then came in Gib our cat,
And catched the mouse e'en by the back.

Then did they separate,
And the frog leaped on the floor so flat.

Then came in Dick our drake,
And drew the frog e'en to the lake.

The rat run up the wall,
Humbledum, humbledum;
A goodly company, the Devil go with all!
Tweedle tweedle twino.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Jack and Joan, they think no ill,
But loving live, and merry still;
Do their week-days' work, and pray
Devoutly on the holy day:
Skip and trip it on the green,
And help to choose the Summer Queen;
Lash out at a country feast
Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale,
And tell at large a winter tale;
Climb up to the apple loft,
And turn the crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the father's joy,
And little Tom the mother's boy.
All their pleasure is Content;
And Care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows
And deck her windows with green boughs;
She can wreaths and tutties[9] make,
And trim with plums a bridal cake.
Jack knows what brings gain or loss;
And his long flail can stoutly toss:
Makes the hedge which others break,
And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights,
That study only strange delights;
Though you scorn the homespun gray
And revel in your rich array;
Though your tongues dissemble deep,
And can your heads from danger keep;
Yet, for all your pomp and train,
Securer lives the silly swain.

[9] Nosegays.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Kind are her answers,
But her performance keeps no day;
Breaks time, as dancers,
From their own music when they stray.
All her free favours and smooth words
Wing my hopes in vain.
O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign?
Can true love yield such delay,
Converting joy to pain?

Lost is our freedom
When we submit to women so:
Why do we need 'em
When, in their best, they work our woe?
There is no wisdom
Can alter ends by Fate prefixt.
O, why is the good of man with evil mixt?
Never were days yet called two
But one night went betwixt.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.

Kind in unkindness, when will you relent
And cease with faint love true love to torment?
Still entertained, excluded still I stand;
Her glove still hold, but cannot touch the hand.

In her fair hand my hopes and comforts rest:
O might my fortunes with that hand be blest!
No envious breaths then my deserts could shake,
For they are good whom such true love doth make.

O let not beauty so forget her birth
That it should fruitless home return to earth!
Love is the fruit of beauty, then love one!
Not your sweet self, for such self-love is none.

Love one that only lives in loving you;
Whose wronged deserts would you with pity view,
This strange distaste which your affection sways
Would relish love, and you find better days.

Thus till my happy sight your beauty views,
Whose sweet remembrance still my hope renews,
Let these poor lines solicit love for me,
And place my joys where my desires would be.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals of Five and Six Parts_, 1600.

Lady, the birds right fairly
Are singing ever early;
The lark, the thrush, the nightingale,
The make-sport cuckoo and the quail.
These sing of Love! then why sleep ye?
To love your sleep it may not be.

From THOMAS GREAVES' _Songs of Sundry Kinds_, 1604.

Lady, the melting crystal of your eye
Like frozen drops upon your cheeks did lie;
Mine eye was dancing on them with delight,
And saw love's flames within them burning bright,
Which did mine eye entice
To play with burning ice;
But O, my heart thus sporting with desire,
My careless eye did set my heart on fire.

O that a drop from such a sweet fount flying
Should flame like fire and leave my heart a-dying!
I burn, my tears can never drench it
Till in your eyes I bathe my heart and quench it:
But there, alas, love with his fire lies sleeping,
And all conspire to burn my heart with weeping.

From JOHN WILBYE's _Madrigals_, 1598.

Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting,
Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,
And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,
My eyes present me with a double doubting:
For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes
Whether the roses be your lips or your lips [be] the roses.

From J. DANYEL's _Songs for the Lute, Viol and Voice_, 1606.

Let not Chloris think, because
She hath unvassel'd me,
That her beauty can give laws
To others that are free:
I was made to be the prey
And booty of her eyes!
In my bosom, she may say.
Her greatest kingdom lies.

Though others may her brow adore,
Yet more must I that therein see far more
Than any other's eyes have power to see;
She is to me
More than to any others she can be.
I can discern more secret notes
That in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes
Than any else besides have art to read;
No looks proceed
From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.

O then why
Should she fly
From him to whom her sight
Doth add so much above her might?
Why should not she
Still joy to reign in me?

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Songs and Sonnets_, 1611.

Let not the sluggish sleep
Close up thy waking eye,
Until with judgment deep
Thy daily deeds thou try:
He that one sin in conscience keeps
When he to quiet goes,
More vent'rous is than he that sleeps
With twenty mortal foes.

From GEORGE MASON's and JOHN EARSDEN's _Airs that were sung and played at Brougham Castle in Westmoreland in the King's Entertainment given by the Earl of Cumberland_, 1618.

Let us in a lovers' round
Circle all this hallowed ground;
Softly, softly trip and go,
The light-foot Fairies jet it so.
Forward then, and back again,
Here and there and everywhere,
Winding to and fro,
Skipping high and louting low;
And, like lovers, hand in hand,
March around and make a stand.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals of Six Parts_, 1600.

Like two proud armies marching in the field,--
Joining a thund'ring fight, each scorns to yield,--
So in my heart your beauty and my reason:
One claims the crown, the other says 'tis treason.
But oh! your beauty shineth as the sun;
And dazzled reason yields as quite undone.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals to Three, Four, Five and Six Voices_, 1597.

Lo! country sport that seldom fades;
A garland of the spring,
A prize for dancing, country maids
With merry pipes we bring.
Then all at once _for our town_ cries!
Pipe on, for we will have the prize.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Lo, when back mine eye
Pilgrim-like I cast,
What fearful ways I spie
Which, blinded, I securely passed!

But now heaven hath drawn
From my brows that night;
As when the day doth dawn,
So clears my long-imprisoned sight.

Straight the Caves of Hell
Dressed with flowers I see,
Wherein False Pleasures dwell,
That, winning most, most deadly be.

Throngs of masked fiends,
Winged like angels, fly;
Even in the gates of friends,
In fair disguise black dangers lie.

Straight to heaven I raised
My restored sight,
And with loud voice I praised
The LORD of ever-during light.

And since I had strayed
From His ways so wide,
His grace I humbly prayed
Henceforth to be my guard and guide.

From JOHN MAYNARD's _Twelve Wonders of the World_, 1611.

THE COURTIER.

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.