Chapter 3

From THOMAS RAVENSCROFT's _Brief Discourse_, 1614.

THE FAIRIES' DANCE.

Dare you haunt our hallow'd green? None but fairies here are seen. Down and sleep, Wake and weep, Pinch him black, and pinch him blue, That seeks to steal a lover true! When you come to hear us sing, Or to tread our fairy ring, Pinch him black, and pinch him blue! O thus our nails shall handle you!

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

Dear, if I with guile would gild a true intent, Heaping flatt'ries that in heart were never meant, Easily could I then obtain What now in vain I force; Falsehood much doth gain, Truth yet holds the better course.

Love forbid that through dissembling I should thrive, Or, in praising you, myself of truth deprive! Let not your high thoughts debase A simple truth in me; Great is Beauty's grace, Truth is yet as fair as she.

Praise is but the wind of pride if it exceeds, Wealth prized in itself no outward value needs: Fair you are, and passing fair; You know it, and 'tis true; Yet let none despair But to find as fair as you.

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

Dear, if you change, I'll never choose again; Sweet, if you shrink, I'll never think of love; Fair, if you fail, I'll judge all beauty vain; Wise, if too weak, more wits I'll never prove. Dear, sweet, fair, wise! change, shrink, nor be not weak; And, on my faith, my faith shall never break.

Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn; Heaven her bright stars through earth's dim globe shall move; Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born; Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove: Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view, Ere I prove false to faith or strange to you.

From THOMAS MORLEY's _Canzonets_, 1593.

Do you not know how Love lost first his seeing? Because with me once gazing On those fair eyes where all powers have their being, She with her beauty blazing, Which death might have revived, Him of his sight and me of heart deprived.

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

Draw on, sweet Night, best friend unto those cares That do arise from painful melancholy; My life so ill through want of comfort fares, That unto thee I consecrate it wholly.

Sweet Night, draw on; my griefs, when they be told To shades and darkness, find some ease from paining; And while thou all in silence dost enfold, I then shall have best time for my complaining.

From HENRY YOULL's _Canzonets to three Voices_, 1608.

Each day of thine, sweet month of May, Love makes a solemn holyday: I will perform like duty, Since thou resemblest every way Astraea, Queen of Beauty.

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

Every dame affects good fame, whate'er her doings be, But true praise is Virtue's bays, which none may wear but she. Borrowed guise fits not the wise, a simple look is best; Native grace becomes a face though ne'er so rudely drest. Now such new-found toys are sold these women to disguise, That before the year grows old the newest fashion dies.

Dames of yore contended more in goodness to exceed, Than in pride to be envied for that which least they need. Little lawn then serve[d] the Pawn, if Pawn at all there were; Homespun thread and household bread then held out all the year. But th' attires of women now wear out both house and land; That the wives in silk may flow, at ebb the good men stand.

Once again, Astraea! then from heaven to earth descend, And vouchsafe in their behalf these errors to amend. Aid from heaven must make all even, things are so out of frame; For let man strive all he can, he needs must please his dame. Happy man, content that gives and what he gives enjoys! Happy dame, content that lives and breaks no sleep for toys!

From FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599.

Fair Phyllis I saw sitting all alone, Feeding her flock near to the mountain-side; The shepherds knew not whither she was gone, But after her lover Amyntas hied. Up and down he wandered, whilst she was missing; When he found her, oh then they fell a-kissing!

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs_, 1588.

Farewell, false Love, the oracle of lies, A mortal foe and enemy to rest, An envious boy from whom all cares arise, A bastard vile, a beast with rage possest; A way of error, a temple full of treason, In all effects contrary unto reason.

A poison'd serpent cover'd all with flowers, Mother of sighs and murderer of repose; A sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showers As moisture lend to every grief that grows; A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, A gilded hook that holds a poison'd bait.

A fortress foiled which Reason did defend, A Siren song, a fever of the mind, A maze wherein affection finds no end, A raging cloud that runs before the wind; A substance like the shadow of the sun, A goal of grief for which the wisest run.

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, A path that leads to peril and mishap, A true retreat of sorrow and despair, An idle boy that sleeps in Pleasure's lap; A deep distrust of that which certain seems, A hope of that which Reason doubtful deems.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.

Farewell, my joy! Adieu, my love and pleasure! To sport and toy We have no longer leisure. Fa la la!

Farewell, adieu Until our next consorting! Sweet love, be true! And thus we end our sporting. Fa la la!

From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs or Airs_, 1600.

Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new, Good pennyworths,--but money cannot move: I keep a fair but for the Fair to view,-- A beggar may be liberal of love. Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true, The heart is true.

Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again, My trifles come as treasures from my mind; It is a precious jewel to be plain; Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find: Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain! Of me a grain!

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?