Chapter 8

Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than th' obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting; Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.

While I use of eyes enjoy and inward light of reason, Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season; Hidden mischief to conceal in state and love is treason.

From _Pammelia_, 1609.

What hap had I to marry a shrow! For she hath given me many a blow, And how to please her alack I do not know.

From morn to even her tongue ne'er lies, Sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries, Yet I can scarce keep her talents[23] from mine eyes.

If I go abroad and late come in,-- "Sir knave," saith she, "Where have you been?" And do I well or ill she claps me on the skin.

[23] Old form of "talons."

From ORLANDO GIBBONS' _First Set Of Madrigals_, 1612. (Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)

What is our life? a play of passion: Our mirth? the music of division. Our mothers' wombs the tyring-houses be Where we are drest for this short comedy: Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is That sits and marks whoe'er doth act amiss: Our graves, that hide us from the searching sun, Are like drawn curtains when the play is done: Thus march we playing to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest,--that's no jest.

From JOHN WILBYE's _Madrigals_, 1598.

What needeth all this travail and turmoiling, Short'ning the life's sweet pleasure To seek this far-fetched treasure In those hot climates under Ph[oe]bus broiling?

O fools, can you not see a traffic nearer In my sweet lady's face, where Nature showeth Whatever treasure eye sees or heart knoweth? Rubies and diamonds dainty And orient pearls such plenty, Coral and ambergreece sweeter and dearer Than which the South Seas or Moluccas lend us, Or either Indies, East or West, do send us!

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

What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice Than herdsmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice, And fortune's fate not fearing Sing sweet in summer morning?

Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful, It is to kneel and wait On favourite presumptuous Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.

All day their flocks each tendeth; At night, they take their rest; More quiet than who sendeth His ship into the East, Where gold and pearl are plenty; But getting, very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading, They 'steem it not a straw; They think that honest meaning Is of itself a law: Whence conscience judgeth plainly, They spend no money vainly.

O happy who thus liveth! Not caring much for gold; With clothing which sufficeth To keep him from the cold. Though poor and plain his diet Yet merry it is, and quiet.

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

What poor astronomers are they, Take women's eyes for stars! And set their thoughts in battle 'ray, To fight such idle wars; When in the end they shall approve 'Tis but a jest drawn out of Love.

And Love itself is but a jest Devised by idle heads, To catch young Fancies in the nest, And lay them in fool's beds; That being hatched in beauty's eyes They may be fledged ere they be wise.

But yet it is a sport to see, How Wit will run on wheels! While Wit cannot persuaded be, With that which Reason feels, That women's eyes and stars are odd And Love is but a feigned god!

But such as will run mad with Will, I cannot clear their sight But leave them to their study still, To look where is no light! Till time too late, we make them try, They study false Astronomy!

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

What then is love, sings Corydon, Since Phyllida is grown so coy? A flattering glass to gaze upon, A busy jest, a serious toy, A flower still budding, never blown, A scanty dearth in fullest store Yielding least fruit where most is sown. My daily note shall be therefore-- Heigh ho, chil love no more.

'Tis like a morning dewy rose Spread fairly to the sun's arise, But when his beams he doth disclose That which then flourish'd quickly dies; It is a seld-fed dying hope, A promised bliss, a salveless sore, An aimless mark, and erring scope. My daily note shall be therefore,-- Heigh ho, chil love no more.

'Tis like a lamp shining to all, Whilst in itself it doth decay; It seems to free whom it doth thrall, And lead our pathless thoughts astray. It is the spring of wintered hearts Parched by the summer's heat before Faint hope to kindly warmth converts. My daily note shall be therefore-- Heigh ho, chil love no more.

From RICHARD CARLTON's _Madrigals_, 1601.

When Flora fair the pleasant tidings bringeth Of summer sweet with herbs and flowers adorned, The nightingale upon the hawthorn singeth And Boreas' blasts the birds and beasts have scorned; When fresh Aurora with her colours painted, Mingled with spears of gold, the sun appearing, Delights the hearts that are with love acquainted, And maying maids have then their time of cheering; All creatures then with summer are delighted, The beasts, the birds, the fish with scale of silver; Then stately dames by lovers are invited To walk in meads or row upon the river. I all alone am from these joys exiled, No summer grows where love yet never smiled.

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

When I was otherwise than now I am, I loved more but skilled not so much Fair words and smiles could have contented then, My simple age and ignorance was such: But at the length experience made me wonder That hearts and tongues did lodge so far asunder.

As watermen which on the Thames do row, Look to the east but west keeps on the way; My sovereign sweet her count'nance settled so, To feed my hope while she her snares might lay: And when she saw that I was in her danger, Good God, how soon she proved then a ranger!

I could not choose but laugh, although too late, To see great craft decypher'd in a toy; I love her still, but such conditions hate Which so profanes my paradise of joy. Love whets the wits, whose pain is but a pleasure; A toy, by fits to play withal at leisure.

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

When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finished love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty sake: When thou hast told these honours done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.

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

{deinos Eros, deinos; ti de to pleon, en palin eipo, kai palin, oimozon pollaki, deinos Eros?} MELEAG.

When younglings first on Cupid fix their sight, And see him naked, blindfold, and a boy, Though bow and shafts and firebrand be his might, Yet ween they he can work them none annoy; And therefore with his purple wings they play, For glorious seemeth love though light as feather, And when they have done they ween to scape away, For blind men, say they, shoot they know not whither. But when by proof they find that he did see, And that his wound did rather dim their sight, They wonder more how such a lad as he Should be of such surpassing power and might. But ants have galls, so hath the bee his sting: Then shield me, heavens, from such a subtle thing!

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

Where most my thoughts, there least mine eye is striking; Where least I come there most my heart abideth; Where most I love I never show my liking; From what my mind doth hold my body slideth; I show least care where most my care dependeth; A coy regard where most my soul attendeth.

Despiteful thus unto myself I languish, And in disdain myself from joy I banish. These secret thoughts enwrap me so in anguish That life, I hope, will soon from body vanish, And to some rest will quickly be conveyed That on no joy, while so I lived, hath stayed.

From MARTIN PEARSON's _Mottects or Grave Chamber-Music_, 1630.

A MOURNING-SONG FOR THE DEATH OF SIR FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE.

Where shall a sorrow great enough be sought For this sad ruin which the Fates have wrought, Unless the Fates themselves should weep and wish Their curbless power had been controlled in this? For thy loss, worthiest Lord, no mourning eye Has flood enough; no muse nor elegy Enough expression to thy worth can lend; No, though thy Sidney had survived his friend. Dead, noble Brooke shall be to us a name Of grief and honour still, whose deathless fame Such Virtue purchased as makes us to be Unjust to Nature in lamenting thee; Wailing an old man's fate as if in pride And heat of Youth he had untimely died.

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

{skene pas ho bios, kai paignion.} PALLAD.

Whether men do laugh or weep, Whether they do wake or sleep, Whether they die young or old, Whether they feel heat or cold; There is underneath the sun Nothing in true earnest done.

All our pride is but a jest, None are worst and none are best; Grief and joy and hope and fear Play their pageants everywhere: Vain Opinion all doth sway, And the world is but a play.

Powers above in clouds do sit, Mocking our poor apish wit, That so lamely with such state Their high glory imitate. No ill can be felt but pain, And that happy men disdain.

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

While that the sun with his beams hot Scorched the fruits in vale and mountain, Philon, the shepherd, late forgot Sitting beside a chrystal fountain In shadow of a green oak-tree, Upon his pipe this song play'd he: Adieu, Love! adieu, Love! untrue Love! Untrue Love, untrue Love! adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

So long as I was in your sight, I was your heart, your soul, your treasure; And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd, Burning in flames beyond all measure. Three days endured your love for me, And it was lost in other three. Adieu, Love! adieu, Love! untrue Love! Untrue Love, untrue Love! adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

Another shepherd you did see, To whom your heart was soon enchained; Full soon your love was leapt from me, Full soon my place he had obtained: Soon came a third your love to win; And we were out, and he was in. Adieu, Love! adieu, Love! untrue Love! Untrue Love, untrue Love! adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new Love.

Sure, you have made me passing glad That you your mind so soon removed, Before that I the leisure had To choose you for my best beloved: For all my love was past and done Two days, before it was begun. Adieu, Love! adieu, Love! untrue Love! Untrue Love, untrue Love! adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.

Whilst youthful sports are lasting, To feasting turn our fasting. Fa la la!

With revels and with wassails Make grief and care our vassals. Fa la la!

For youth it well beseemeth That pleasure he esteemeth. Fa la la!

And sullen age is hated That mirth would have abated. Fa la la!

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

White as lilies was her face: When she smiled She beguiled, Quitting faith with foul disgrace. Virtue's service thus neglected. Heart with sorrows hath infected.

When I swore my heart her own, She disdained; I complained, Yet she left me overthrown: Careless of my bitter grieving, Ruthless, bent to no relieving.

Vows and oaths and faith assured, Constant ever, Changing never,-- Yet she could not be procured To believe my pains exceeding From her scant respect proceeding.

O that love should have the art, By surmises, And disguises, To destroy a faithful heart; Or that wanton-looking women Should reward their friends as foemen.

All in vain is ladies' love-- Quickly choosed. Shortly loosed; For their pride is to remove. Out, alas! their looks first won us, And their pride hath straight undone us.

To thyself, the sweetest Fair! Thou hast wounded, And confounded Changeless faith with foul despair; And my service hast envied And my succours hast denied.

By thine error thou hast lost Heart unfeigned, Truth unstained. And the swain that loved most, More assured in love than many, Move despised in love than any.

For my heart, though set at nought, Since you will it, Spoil and kill it! I will never change my thought: But grieve that beauty e'er was born Thus to answer love with scorn.

From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's _First Book of Songs or Airs_, 1605.

Whither so fast? see how the kindly flowers Perfume the air, and all to make thee stay: The climbing wood-bine, clipping all these bowers, Clips thee likewise for fear thou pass away; Fortune our friend, our foe will not gainsay. Stay but awhile, Ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I'll my Ph[oe]be kiss.

Fear not, the ground seeks but to kiss thy feet; Hark, hark, how Philomela sweetly sings! Whilst water-wanton fishes as they meet Strike crotchet time amidst these crystal springs, And Zephyrus amongst the leaves sweet murmur rings. Stay but awhile, Ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I'll my Ph[oe]be kiss.

See how the helitrope, herb of the sun, Though he himself long since be gone to bed, Is not of force thine eye's bright beams to shun, But with their warmth his goldy leaves unspread, And on my knee invites thee rest thy head. Stay but awhile, Ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I'll my Ph[oe]be kiss.

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

Who likes to love, let him take heed! And wot you why? Among the gods it is decreed That Love shall die; And every wight that takes his part Shall forfeit each a mourning heart.

The cause is this, as I have heard: A sort of dames, Whose beauty he did not regard Nor secret flames, Complained before the gods above That gold corrupts the god of love.

The gods did storm to hear this news, And there they swore, That sith he did such dames abuse He should no more Be god of love, but that he should Both die and forfeit all his gold.

His bow and shafts they took away Before his eyes, And gave these dames a longer day For to devise Who should them keep, and they be bound That love for gold should not be found.

These ladies striving long, at last They did agree To give them to a maiden chaste, Whom I did see, Who with the same did pierce my breast: Her beauty's rare, and so I rest.

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

1. Who made thee, Hob, forsake the plough And fall in love? 2. Sweet beauty, which hath power to bow The gods above. 1. What dost thou serve? 2. A shepherdess; One such as hath no peer, I guess. 1. What is her name who bears thy heart Within her breast? 2. Silvana fair, of high desert, Whom I love best. 1. O, Hob, I fear she looks too high. 2. Yet love I must, or else I die.

From THOMAS BATESON's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1604.

Who prostrate lies at women's feet. And calls them darlings dear and sweet; Protesting love, and craving grace, And praising oft a foolish face; Are oftentimes deceived at last, Then catch at nought and hold it fast.

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

Who would have thought that face of thine Had been so full of doubleness, Or that within those crystal eyn Had been so much unstableness? Thy face so fair, thy look so strange! Who would have thought of such a change?

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

Why are you Ladies staying, And your Lords gone a-maying? Run apace and meet them And with your garlands greet them. 'Twere pity they should miss you, For they will sweetly kiss you.

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

Wilt thou, Unkind! thus 'reave me Of my heart and so leave me? Farewell! But yet, or ere I part, O Cruel, Kiss me, Sweet, my Jewel! Farewell!

Hope by disdain grows cheerless, Fear doth love, love doth fear; Beauty peerless, Farewell!

If no delays can move thee, Life shall die, death shall live Still to love thee. Farewell!

Yet be thou mindful ever! Heat from fire, fire from heat, None can sever. Farewell!

True love cannot be changed, Though delight from desert Be estranged. Farewell!

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

Wise men patience never want, Good men pity cannot hide; Feeble spirits only vaunt Of revenge, the poorest pride: He alone forgive that can Bears the true soul of a man.

Some there are debate that seek, Making trouble their content; Happy if they wrong the meek, Vex them that to peace are bent: Such undo the common tie Of mankind, Society.

Kindness grown is lately cold, Conscience hath forgot her part; Blessed times were known of old Long ere Law became an art: Shame deterred, not statutes then; Honest love was law to men.

Deeds from love, and words, that flow, Foster like kind April showers; In the warm sun all things grow, Wholesome fruits and pleasant flowers: All so thrives his gentle rays Whereon human love displays.

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

Woeful Heart, with grief oppressed! Since my fortunes most distressed From my joys hath me removed, Follow those sweet eyes adored! Those sweet eyes wherein are stored All my pleasures best beloved.

Fly my breast--leave me forsaken-- Wherein Grief his seat hath taken, All his arrows through me darting! Thou mayst live by her sunshining: I shall suffer no more pining By thy loss than by her parting.

From THOMAS GREAVES' _Songs of Sundry Kinds_, 1604.

Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes To lovers' plaints with heart-sore throbs immixed, When as my dear this way her pleasure takes, Tell her with tears how firm my love is fixed; And, Philomel, report my timerous fears, And, echo, sound my heigh-ho's in her ears: But if she asks if I for love will die, Tell her, Good faith, good faith, good faith,--not I.

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

You blessed bowers whose green leaves now are spreading, Shadow the sunshine from my mistress' face, And you, sweet roses, only for her bedding When weary she doth take her resting-place; You fair white lilies and pretty flowers all, Give your attendance at my mistress' call.

From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets_, 1595.

You that wont to my pipe's sound Daintily to tread your ground, Jolly shepherds and nymphs sweet, (Lirum, lirum.)

Here met together Under the weather, Hand in hand uniting, The lovely god come greet. (Lirum, lirum)

Lo, triumphing, brave comes he, All in pomp and majesty, Monarch of the world and king. (Lirum, lirum.)

Let whoso list him Dare to resist him, We our voices uniting, Of his high acts will sing. (Lirum, lirum.)

From THOMAS BATESON's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1604.

Your shining eyes and golden hair, Your lily-rosed lips so fair; Your various beauties which excel, Men cannot choose but like them well: Yet when for them they say they'll die, Believe them not,--they do but lie.

NOTES.

_Page_ 3.

Thomas Weelkes was organist of Winchester College in 1600, and of Chichester Cathedral in 1608. His first collection, "Madrigals to three, four, five, or six voices," was published in 1597. Here first appeared the verses (fraudulently ascribed, in "The Passionate Pilgrim," 1599, to Shakespeare), "My flocks feed not." In 1598 Weelkes published "Ballets and Madrigals to five voices," which was followed in 1600 by "Madrigals of five and six parts." Prefixed to the last-named work is the following dedicatory epistle:--

"To the truly noble, virtuous, and honorable, my very good Lord Henry, Lord Winsor, Baron of Bradenham.

My Lord, in the College at Winchester, where I live, I have heard learned men say that some philosophers have mistaken the soul of man for an harmony: let the precedent of their error be a privilege for mine. I see not, if souls do not partly consist of music, how it should come to pass that so noble a spirit as your's, so perfectly tuned to so perpetual a _tenor_ of excellence as it is, should descend to the notice of a quality lying single in so low a personage as myself. But in music the _base_ part is no disgrace to the best ears' attendancy. I confess my conscience is untoucht with any other arts, and I hope my confession is unsuspected; many of us musicians think it as much praise to be somewhat more than musicians as it is for gold to be somewhat more than gold, and if _Jack Cade_ were alive, yet some of us might live, unless we should think, as the artisans in the Universities of Poland and Germany think, that the Latin tongue comes by reflection. I hope your Lordship will pardon this presumption of mine; the rather, because I know before Nobility I am to deal sincerely; and this small faculty of mine, because it is alone in me, and without the assistance of other more confident sciences, is the more to be favoured and the rather to be received into your honour's protection; so shall I observe you with as humble and as true an heart, as he whose knowledge is as large as the world's creation, and as earnestly pray for you to the world's Creator.

Your Honor's in all humble service, THOMAS WEELKES."