Chapter 7

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

The peaceful western wind The winter storms hath tamed, And Nature in each kind The kind heat hath inflamed: The forward buds so sweetly breathe Out of their earthly bowers, That heaven, which views their pomp beneath, Would fain be decked with flowers.

See how the morning smiles On her bright eastern hill, And with soft steps beguiles Them that lie slumbering still! The music-loving birds are come From cliffs and rocks unknown, To see the trees and briars bloom That late were overthrown.[17]

What Saturn did destroy, Love's Queen revives again; And now her naked boy Doth in the fields remain, Where he such pleasing change doth view In every living thing, As if the world were born anew To gratify the spring.

If all things life present, Why die my comforts then? Why suffers my content? Am I the worst of men? O, Beauty, be not thou accused Too justly in this case! Unkindly if true love be used, 'Twill yield thee little grace.

[17] Old ed. "overflown."

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

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place Wherein all pleasant fruits doth flow. There cherries grow which none may buy, Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy, Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry.

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

There is a Lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion and her smiles Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart, I know not why, And yet I love her till I die.

Her free behaviour, winning looks Will make a Lawyer burn his books; I touched her not, alas! not I, And yet I love her till I die.

Had I her fast betwixt mine arms, Judge you that think such sports were harms; Were't any harm? no, no, fie, fie, For I will love her till I die.

Should I remain confined there So long as Ph[oe]bus in his sphere, I to request, she to deny, Yet would I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range, Her country so my love doth change: But change she earth, or change she sky, Yet will I love her till I die.

From _Melismata_, 1611.

There were three Ravens sat on a tree,-- Down-a-down, hey down, hey down! There were three Ravens sat on a tree,-- With a down!

There were three Ravens sat on a tree,-- They were as black as they might be: With a down, derry derry derry down down!

The one of them said to his make[18]-- Where shall we our breakfast take?

Down in yonder greene field There lies a knight slain under his shield.

His hounds they lie down at his feet: So well they their master keep.

His hawks they fly so eagerly, There's no fowl dare him come nigh.

Down there comes a fallow doe, Great with young as she might go.

She lift up his bloody head, And kist his wounds that were so red.

She gat him upon her back And carried him to earthen lake.

She buried him before the prime; She was dead ere even-time.

God send every gentleman Such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman! With a down, derry.

[18] Old ed. "mate"; but "make," which is required for the rhyme, was a recognised form of "mate."

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

Think'st thou, Kate, to put me down With a 'No' or with a frown? Since Love holds my heart in bands I must do as Love commands.

Love commands the hands to dare When the tongue of speech is spare, Chiefest lesson in Love's school,-- Put it in adventure, fool!

Fools are they that fainting flinch For a squeak, a scratch, a pinch: Women's words have double sense: 'Stand away!'--a simple fence.

If thy mistress swear she'll cry, Fear her not, she'll swear and lie: Such sweet oaths no sorrow bring Till the prick of conscience sting.

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

Think'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning? Parrots so can learn to prate, our speech by pieces gleaning: Nurses teach their children so about the time of weaning.

Learn to speak first, then to woo, to wooing much pertaineth: He that courts us, wanting art, soon falters when he feigneth, Looks asquint on his discourse and smiles when he complaineth.

Skilful anglers hide their hooks, fit baits for every season; But with crooked pins fish thou, as babes do that want reason: Gudgeons only can be caught with such poor tricks of treason.

Ruth forgive me (if I erred) from human heart's compassion, When I laughed sometimes too much to see thy foolish fashion: But, alas, who less could do that found so good occasion!

From JOHN WILBYE's _Madrigals_, 1598.

Thou art but young, thou say'st, And love's delight thou weigh'st not: O, take time while thou may'st, Lest when thou would'st thou may'st not.

If love shall then assail thee, A double anguish will torment thee; And thou wilt wish (but wishes all will fail thee,) "O me! that I were young again!" and so repent thee.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601. (Ascribed to Dr. Donne.)

Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white, For all those rosy ornaments in thee; Thou art not sweet, tho' made of mere delight, Nor fair, nor sweet--unless thou pity me. I will not soothe thy fancies, thou shalt prove That beauty is no beauty without love.

Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure My thoughts with beauty were it more divine; Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure, I'll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine: Now show it, if thou be a woman right,-- Embrace and kiss and love me in despite.

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

Thou pretty Bird, how do I see Thy silly state and mine agree! For thou a prisoner art; So is my heart. Thou sing'st to her, and so do I address My Music to her ear that's merciless; But herein doth the difference lie,-- That thou art grac'd, so am not I; Thou singing liv'st, and I must singing die.

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

Though Amaryllis dance in green Like Fairy Queen, And sing full clear; Corinna can, with smiling cheer. Yet since their eyes make heart so sore, Hey ho! chil love no more.

My sheep are lost for want of food And I so wood[19] That all the day I sit and watch a herd-maid gay; Who laughs to see me sigh so sore, Hey ho! chil love no more.

Her loving looks, her beauty bright, Is such delight! That all in vain I love to like, and lose my gain For her, that thanks me not therefore. Hey ho! chil love no more.

Ah wanton eyes! my friendly foes And cause of woes; Your sweet desire Breeds flames of ice, and freeze in fire! Ye scorn to see me weep so sore! Hey ho! chil love no more.

Love ye who list, I force him not: Since God is wot, The more I wail, The less my sighs and tears prevail. What shall I do? but say therefore, Hey ho! chil love no more.

[19] Distracted.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Airs or Fantastic Spirits_, 1608.

Though my carriage be but careless, Though my looks be of the sternest, Yet my passions are compareless; When I love, I love in earnest.

No; my wits are not so wild, But a gentle soul may yoke me; Nor my heart so hard compiled, But it melts, if love provoke me.

From ROBERT JONES' _Musical Dream_, 1609. (This song is also printed in Thomas Campion's _Two Books of Airs_, circ. 1613.)

Though your strangeness frets my heart, Yet must I not complain; You persuade me 'tis but art Which secret love must feign; If another you affect, 'Tis but a toy, t' avoid suspect. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing.

When your wish'd sight I desire, Suspicion you pretend, Causeless you yourself retire Whilst I in vain attend, Thus a lover, as you say, Still made more eager by delay. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing.

When another holds your hand You'll swear I hold your heart; Whilst my rival close doth stand And I sit far apart, I am nearer yet than they, Hid in your bosom, as you say. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing.

Would a rival then I were Or[20] else a secret friend, So much lesser should I fear And not so much attend. They enjoy you, every one, Yet must I seem your friend alone. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing.

[20] Old ed. "Some."

From GILES FARNABY's _Canzonets_, 1598.

Thrice blessed be the giver That gave sweet love that golden quiver, And live he long among the gods anointed That made the arrow-heads sharp-pointed: If either of them both had quailed, She of my love and I of hers had failed.

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

Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air, Thrice sit thou mute in the enchanted chair, Then thrice-three times tie up this true love's knot, And murmur soft "She will or she will not."

Go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire, These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar, This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave, That all my fears and cares an end may have.

Then come, you Fairies! dance with me a round! Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound! --In vain are all the charms I can devise: She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

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

Thus I resolve and Time hath taught me so: Since she is fair and ever kind to me, Though she be wild and wanton-like in show, Those little stains in youth I will not see. That she be constant, heaven I oft implore; If prayers prevail not, I can do no more.

Palm-tree the more you press, the more it grows; Leave it alone, it will not much exceed: Free beauty, if you strive to yoke, you lose, And for affection strange distaste you breed. What nature hath not taught no art can frame; Wild-born be wild still, though by force you tame.

From JOHN WILBYE's _Madrigals_, 1598.

Thus saith my Chloris bright When we of love sit down and talk together:-- "Beware of Love, dear; Love is a walking sprite, And Love is this and that And, O, I know not what, And comes and goes again I wot not whether."[21] No, no, these are but bugs to breed amazing, For in her eyes I saw his torch-light blazing.

[21] Old form of "whither."

From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets to Five Voices_, 1595.

Thus saith my Galatea: Love long hath been deluded, When shall it be concluded?

The young nymphs all are wedded: Ah, then why do I tarry? Oh, let me die or marry.

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

To his sweet lute Apollo sang the motions of the spheres, The wondrous orders of the stars whose course divides the years, And all the mysteries above; But none of this could Midas move: Which purchased him his ass's ears.

Then Pan with his rude pipe began the country wealth t' advance, To boast of cattle, flocks of sheep, and goats on hills that dance, With much more of this churlish kind, That quite transported Midas' mind, And held him wrapt in trance.

This wrong the God of Music scorned from such a sottish judge, And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the piper trudge: Then Midas' head he so did trim That every age yet talks of him And Ph[oe]bus' right revenged grudge.

From ROBERT DOWLAND's _Musical Banquet_, 1610. (The lines are assigned to Robert Deveureux, Earl of Essex.)

To plead my faith, where faith hath no reward, To move remorse where favour is not borne, To heap complaints where she doth not regard, Were fruitless, bootless, vain, and yield but scorn.

I loved her whom all the world admired, I was refused of her that can love none, And my vain hopes which far too high aspired Is dead and buried and for ever gone.

Forget my name since you have scorned my love, And woman-like do not too late lament: Since for your sake I do all mischief prove, I none accuse nor nothing do repent: I was as fond as ever she was fair, Yet loved I not more than I now despair.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.

To shorten winter's sadness See where the nymphs with gladness Fa la la!

Disguised all are coming, Right wantonly a-mumming. Fa la la!

Though masks encloud their beauty, Yet give the eye her duty. Fa la la!

When Heaven is dark it shineth And unto love inclineth. Fa la la!

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

Toss not my soul, O Love, 'twixt hope and fear! Show me some ground where I may firmly stand, Or surely fall! I care not which appear, So one will close me in a certain band. When once of ill the uttermost is known; The strength of sorrow quite is overthrown!

Take me, Assurance, to thy blissful hold! Or thou Despair, unto thy darkest cell! Each hath full rest: the one, in joys enroll'd; Th' other, in that he fears no more, is well. When once the uttermost of ill is known, The strength of sorrow quite is overthrown.

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

Turn all thy thoughts to eyes, Turn all thy hairs to ears, Change all thy friends to spies And all thy joys to fears; True love will yet be free In spite of jealousy.

Turn darkness into day, Conjectures into truth, Believe what th' envious say, Let age interpret youth: True love will yet be free In spite of jealousy.

Wrest every word and look, Rack every hidden thought; Or fish with golden hook, True love cannot be caught: For that will still be free In spite of jealousy.

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

Unto the temple of thy beauty, And to the tomb where pity lies, I, pilgrim-clad with zeal and duty, Do offer up my heart, mine eyes. My heart, lo! in the quenchless fire, On love's burning altar lies, Conducted thither by desire To be beauty's sacrifice.

But pity on thy sable hearse, Mine eyes the tears of sorrow shed; What though tears cannot fate reverse, Yet are they duties to the dead. O, Mistress, in thy sanctuary Why wouldst thou suffer cold disdain To use his frozen cruelty, And gentle pity to be slain?

Pity that to thy beauty fled, And with thy beauty should have lived, Ah, in thy heart lies buried, And nevermore may be revived; Yet this last favour, dear, extend, To accept these vows, these tears I shed, Duties which I thy pilgrim send, To beauty living, pity dead.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Airs or Fantastic Spirits_, 1608.

Upon a hill the bonny boy Sweet Thyrsis sweetly played, And called his lambs their master's joy, And more he would have said; But love that gives the lover wings Withdrew his mind from other things.

His pipe and he could not agree, For Milla was his note; The silly pipe could never get This lovely name by rote: With that they both fell in a sound,[22] He fell a-sleep, his pipe to ground.

[22] Swoon.

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Songs of Sundry Natures_, 1589.

Upon a summer's day Love went to swim, And cast himself into a sea of tears; The clouds called in their light, and heaven waxed dim, And sighs did raise a tempest, causing fears; The naked boy could not so wield his arms, But that the waves were masters of his might, And threatened him to work far greater harms If he devised not to scape by flight: Then for a boat his quiver stood instead, His bow unbent did serve him for a mast, Whereby to sail his cloth of veil he spread, His shafts for oars on either board he cast: From shipwreck safe this wag got thus to shore, And sware to bathe in lovers' tears no more.

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

Vain men! whose follies make a god of love; Whose blindness, beauty doth immortal deem, Praise not what you desire, but what you prove; Count those things good that are, not those that seem. I cannot call her true, that's false to me; Nor make of women, more than women be.

How fair an entrance breaks the way to love! How rich the golden hope, and gay delight! What heart cannot a modest beauty move? Who seeing clear day once will dream of night? She seemed a saint, that brake her faith with me; But proved a woman, as all other be.

So bitter is their sweet that True Content Unhappy men _in_ them may never find: Ah! but _without_ them, none. Both must consent, Else uncouth are the joys of either kind. Let us then praise their good, forget their ill! Men must be men, and women women still.

From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1624.

Wake, sleepy Thyrsis, wake For Love and Venus' sake! Come, let us mount the hills Which Zephyrus with cool breath fills; Or let us tread new alleys, In yonder shady valleys. Rise, rise, rise, rise! Lighten thy heavy eyes: See how the streams do glide And the green meads divide: But stream nor fire shall part This and this joined heart.

From _Deuteromelia_, 1609.

We be soldiers three, _Pardona moy je vous an pree_, Lately come forth of the Low Country With never a penny of money. Fa la la la lantido dilly.

Here, good fellow, I drink to thee, _Pardona moy je vous an pree_, To all good fellows wherever they be, With never a penny of money.

And he that will not pledge me this, _Pardona moy je vous an pree_, Pays for the shot whatever it is, With never a penny of money.

Charge it again, boy, charge it again, _Pardona moy je vous an pree_, As long as there is any ink in thy pen, With never a penny of money.

From _Deuteromelia_, 1609.

We be three poor mariners, Newly come from the seas; We spend our lives in jeopardy While others live at ease. Shall we go dance the round, the round, Shall we go dance the round? And he that is a bully boy Come pledge me on this ground!

We care not for those martial men That do our states disdain; But we care for the merchant men Who do our states maintain: To them we dance this round, around, To them we dance this round; And he that is a bully boy Come pledge me on this ground!

From _Egerton MS., 2013_.

We must not part as others do, With sighs and tears, as we were two: Though with these outward forms we part, We keep each other in our heart. What search hath found a being, where I am not, if that thou be there?

True love hath wings, and can as soon Survey the world as sun and moon, And everywhere our triumphs keep O'er absence which makes others weep: By which alone a power is given To live on earth, as they in heaven.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voices_, 1598.

We shepherds sing, we pipe, we play, With pretty sport we pass the day: Fa la! We care for no gold, But with our fold We dance And prance As pleasure would. Fa la!

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

Wedded to will is witless, And seldom he is skilful That bears the name of wise and yet is wilful. To govern he is fitless That deals not by election, But by his fond affection. O that it might be treason For men to rule by will and not by reason.

From THOMAS TOMKINS' _Songs of Three, Four, Five, and Six Parts_, 1622.

Weep no more, thou sorry boy; Love's pleased and anger'd with a toy. Love a thousand passion brings, Laughs and weeps, and sighs and sings. If _she_ smiles, he dancing goes, And thinks not on his future woes: If _she_ chide with angry eye, Sits down, and sighs "Ah me, I die!" Yet again, as soon revived, Joys as much as late he grieved. Change there is of joy and sadness, Sorrow much, but more of gladness. Then weep no more, thou sorry boy, Turn thy tears to weeping joy. Sigh no more "Ah me! I die!" But dance, and sing, and ti-hy cry.

From JOHN ROWLAND's _Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs_, 1603.

Weep you no more, sad fountains; What need you flow so fast? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven's sun doth gently waste! But my sun's heavenly eyes, View not your weeping, That now lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets; Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at ev'n he sets? Rest you then, rest, sad eyes! Melt not in weeping, While she lies sleeping, Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voices_, 1598.

Welcome, sweet pleasure, My wealth and treasure; To haste our playing There's no delaying, No no! This mirth delights me When sorrow frights me. Then sing we all Fa la la la la!

Sorrow, content thee, Mirth must prevent thee: Though much thou grievest Thou none relievest. No no! Joy, come delight me, Though sorrow spite me. Then sing we all Fa la la la la!

Grief is disdainful, Sottish and painful: Then wait on pleasure, And lose no leisure. No no! Heart's ease it lendeth And comfort sendeth. Then sing we all Fa la la la la!

From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594.

Were I a king, I might command content; Were I obscure, unknown should be my cares: And were I dead, no thoughts should me torment, Nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears. A doubtful choice, of three things one to crave; A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave.

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

Were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me, But thy faults I curious find and speak because I love thee; Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.