Part 1

SPECULUM AMANTIS.

[Greek: to rhodon akmazei baion chronon; ên de parelthê, zêtôn heurêseis ou rhodon, alla baton.]

_Incert._

_The season of the rose is brief, make haste to pluck your posies; Another day you'll chance to find bare thorns where bloomed the roses._

SPECULUM AMANTIS:

LOVE-POEMS

FROM RARE SONG-BOOKS AND MISCELLANIES

OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

EDITED BY A. H. BULLEN.

LONDON: PRIVATELY PRINTED. 1889.

NOTE.--_Five Hundred Copies only printed, each numbered as issued._

_No._ 133

WARNING AND WELCOME.

Grave moralist, with eyes a-squint, And pucker'd mouth, pack hence! away! Your heart is hard as any flint: Avaunt! Love's feast is spread to-day.

And you, coy maiden, come not nigh, Lest wanton rhyme assail your ears: Wait till your chaste zone you untie And Hymen put to flight your fears.

But, ho! all ye whose brisker veins Glow with Dan Cupid's genial fire, Post hitherwards, 'tis worth your pains, And harken to our tuneful quire.

PREFACE.

In sending out this little anthology of seventeenth-century love-verses, I must say a few words by way of explanation or apology. Some eighteen months ago I published a collection of "Lyrics from the Song-books of the Elizabethan Age" (J. C. Nimmo), and recently I issued a second collection, "More Lyrics from the Song-books of the Elizabethan Age" (J. C. Nimmo). Those volumes were addressed to all classes of readers. They may lie on a drawing-room table without offence. Philemon may give them to his Amanda on her birthday with the full assurance that he will run no risk of bringing a blush to the fair nymph's cheek. I was careful to exclude from those collections any poems that passed the bounds of conventional propriety. In the seventeenth century those bounds were not so well defined as in the present age. John Attey, in 1622, dedicated his "First Book of Airs" to "The Right Honourable John, Earl of Bridgewater, Viscount Brackley, and Baron of Ellesmere; and the truly Noble and Virtuous Lady, Frances, Countess of Bridgewater." Among Attey's songs are the audacious verses, "My days, my months, my years," which I have given in the present collection (page 15). A noble and virtuous lady now-a-days would be justly incensed if she found such a lyric in a song-book of which she had accepted the dedication; but we may be sure that John Attey's patroness did not withdraw her favour from the composer, or express herself shocked at his temerity. Manners have changed, and "My days, my months, my years" is no longer a song for the drawing-room; but snugly stowed away with its fellows on a top shelf in the library it can do no harm.

In the present volume I have gathered together from the song-books the songs that could find no place in the former collections, and I have included several poems from rare miscellanies of the seventeenth century.

Although some of the poems here collected will be familiar to students, I am confident that a considerable portion of the anthology is unknown. Sir Walter Raleigh is a prominent figure in English literature. The late Archdeacon Hannah's edition of Raleigh's poems is a valuable piece of work; and Sir Egerton Brydges, in collecting what he supposed to be Raleigh's poems, showed commendable industry, but scant judgment. I therefore count myself fortunate in having discovered the characteristic poem, "Nature that wash'd her hands in milk" (page 76), which escaped the researches of previous enquirers. The last stanza of that poem, "Oh cruel time, which takes in trust," with a couple of lines tacked on, was published in Raleigh's _Remains_, where it is said to have been "found in his bible in the Gatehouse at Westminster." Every reader has that stanza by heart, but the complete poem--as given in the Harleian MS.--is printed for the first time.

Aurelian Townsend is a poet about whom I have often felt curiosity. He was the friend of Carew, and Suckling introduces him into _The Session of the Poets_. From one of the _Malone MSS._, in the Bodleian Library, I have recovered the charming verses "To the Lady May;" and I can lay my hand on other poems of Townsend which have never seen the light.[1] The poems by Henry Ramsay (page 118), of whom I know nothing, of Bishop Andrewes (page 121), and of J. Paulin (page 127), are not hackneyed; and I might refer to many others.

[1] Some time ago I was at the pains to transcribe from a unique MS. a long poem of Thomas Nashe. It is smoothly written, but very gross. There must be other poems of Nashe in MS.

The finest of all Cartwright's poems is here--the magnificent "Song of Dalliance"--beginning, "Hark, my Flora! Love doth call us." It is ascribed to Cartwright in the unique miscellany (preserved in the Bodleian), _Sportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment_, 1656, but is not printed in his Works. Cartwright had a great reputation among his contemporaries. "My son, Cartwright," said Ben Jonson, "writes all like a man." "Cartwright was the utmost man could come to" in the opinion of that excellent prelate, Bishop Fell. All the wits of the age paid tributes to his memory. Anthony-à-Wood and Lloyd rush into raptures about him. After reading the various panegyrics on his poems it is a sad disappointment to turn to the poems themselves. But if Cartwright wrote other poems equal to "Hark, my Flora!"--not for publication (for he was "the most florid and seraphical preacher in the University," and seraphical preachers should not publish Songs of Dalliance), but to be circulated in manuscript among his friends--then the esteem in which his poetical abilities were held would be intelligible.

Among the rare miscellanies from which I have quoted are _Wits Interpreter_, 1655, 1671; _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650; _The Marrow of Compliments_, 1655; _Sportive Wit_, 1656; _The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence_ (edited by Milton's nephew, Edward Phillips), 1658; _Wit and Drollery_, 1661; _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671; _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672; and _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674. Many poems are from MSS. preserved in the Bodleian Library and the British Museum. The Rev. J. W. Ebsworth, with his usual kindness, has helped me when my knowledge or memory has been at fault. No man has so intimate a knowledge as Mr. Ebsworth of the floating literature of the second half of the seventeenth century.

Though not a few of the poems in the present volume could not be included in anthologies intended for general circulation, I must yet be allowed to state that I have reprinted nothing that is offensively gross. There is a great deal of dirt--nasty worthless trash--in the miscellanies of the Restoration, and with this garbage I have not chosen to meddle.

DALKEITH, N.B., _August, 1888_.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

PAGE

After long service and a thousand vows (_Bristol Drollery_) 19

As Chloe o'er the meadow past (_Sir Charles Sedley_) 122

As I traversed to and fro (_Academy of Compliments_) 36

As youthful day put on his best (_Westminster Drollery_) 63

Away, away! call back what you have said (_Corkine_) 88

Be thou joyful, I am jolly (_Windsor Drollery_) 87

Beauty, since you so much desire (_Campion_) 6

Black eyes, in your dark orbs doth lie (_Howell_) 32

Chloris, forbear awhile (_Sportive Wit_) 93

Chloris, when I to thee present (_Westminster Drollery_) 41

Chloris saw me sigh and tremble (_Vinculum Societatis_) 7

Come, be my Valentine (_Bishop Andrewes_) 121

Come, my Clarinda, we'll consume (_Paulin_) 128

Come, Phillis, let's to yonder grove (_Bristol Drollery_) 7

Constant wives are comforts to men's lives (_Add. MS. 22601_)3

Cupid is an idle toy (_Folly in Print_) 4

Cupid, thou art a sluggish boy (_Mysteries of Love and Eloquence_) 42

Dear Castadorus, let me rise (_Jordan_) 53

Dear, I must do (_Folly in Print_) 25

Do not ask me, charming Phillis (_New Academy of Compliments_) 43

Do not rack my bleeding heart (_Ramsay_) 118

Down in a garden sat my dearest love (_Wit's Interpreter_) 9

Dunces in love, how long shall we (_Rawlinson MS., Poet. 117_) 10

Fair Chloris in a gentle slumber lay (_Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery_) 94

Fairest, if you roses seek (_Bristol Drollery_) 72

Fairest thing that shines below (_New Academy of Compliments_) 109

Gaze not on thy beauty's pride (_Carew_) 84

Go and count her better hours (_Rawlinson MS. Poet. 206_) 67

Go, fickle man, and teach the moon to range (_Hammond_) 124

Hark, my Flora! Love doth call us (_Cartwright_) 10

He or she that hopes to gain (_Harl. MS. 6918_) 120

He that hath no mistress must not wear a favour (_Corkine_) 44

He that intends to woo a maid (_Academy of Compliments_) 14

Her dainty palm I gently prest (_Marrow of Compliments_) 45

I dream'd we both were in a bed (_Herrick_) 40

I have followed thee a year at least (_New Academy of Compliments_) 107

I pray thee, sweet John, away (_Greaves_) 46

I swear by muscadel (_Duke of Newcastle_) 47

I walk'd abroad not long ago (_Wither_) 101

I will not do a sacrifice (_Wit Restored_) 67

If any hath the heart to kill (_Campion_) 99

If my lady bid begin (_Academy of Compliments_) 1

If shadows be the picture's excellence (_Rawlinson MS. Poet. 199_) 30

In summer time when birds do sing (_Harl. MS. 7322_) 79

In summer time when grass was mown (_Harl. MS. 791_) 82

Know, falsest man, as my love was (_Hammond_) 125

Know, Sylvia, that your curious twist (_Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery_) 106

Ladies, whose marble hearts despise (_Munsey_) 78

Ladies, you that seem so nice (_Henry Lawes' Airs and Dialogues_) 98

Lady, on your eyes I gazed (_Wit's Recreations_) 115

Let common beauties have the power (_Harl. MS. 6917_) 2

Like to the wealthy island thou shalt lie (_New Academy of Compliments_) 13

Lose no time nor youth, but be (_Mysteries of Love and Eloquence_) 73

Love in rambling once astray (_Wit at a Venture_) 68

Maids they are grown so coy of late (_Marrow of Compliments_) 97

Methought the other night (_Jones_) 34

My days, my months, my years (_Attey_) 15

My love hath vowed he will forsake me (_Campion_) 95

My love in her attire doth show her wit (_Davison's Poetical Rhapsody_) 12

My mistress sings no other song (_Jones_) 16

Naked love did to thine eye (_Sherburne_) 113

Nature, that wash'd her hands in milk (_Sir Walter Rawleigh_) 76

Nay pish! nay phew! nay faith and will you? fie! (_Sportive Wit_) 49

Nay, Silvia, now you're cruel grown (_Rawlinson MS. Poet. 94_) 21

No, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain (_Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery_) 39

O how oftentimes have I (_Harl. MS. 7332_) 111

Once I must confess I loved (_Wit Restored_) 83

Once and no more: so said my life (_Wit's Interpreter_) 29

Phillis, for shame, let us improve (_Westminster Drollery_) 105

Pish, modest sipper, to't again (_New Academy of Compliments_) 69

Poor Celia once was very fair (_Flatman_) 90

Pretty nymph, why always blushing (_Wit's Cabinet_) 110

Shall we die (_Westminster Drollery_) 74

Sighs, blow out those flames in me (_Rawlinson MS. Poet. 199_) 119

Silvia, now your scorn give over (_Vinculum Societatis_) 96

Sleepy, my dear? Yes, yes, I see (_Wit's Interpreter_) 17

Sol shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright (_Bristol Drollery_) 18

Some men desire spouses (_Weelkes_) 104

Still to affect, still to admire (_Harl. MS. 6917_) 3

Sweet, exclude me not, nor be divided (_Campion_) 52

Sweet Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well (_New Academy of Compliments_) 48

Sweet Philomel, in groves and desarts haunting (_Jones_) 62

Take Time, my dear, ere Time takes wing (_Melpomene_) 102

There is not half so warm a fire (_Choice Drollery_) 71

Thine's fair, facetious, all that can (_Wit's Interpreter_) 28

Though that no god may thee deserve (_Marrow of Compliments_) 60

'Tis not, dear Love, that amber twist (_Wit Restored_) 113

'Tis not how witty nor how free (_Wit's Interpreter_) 61

'Tis true your beauty, which before (_Wit's Recreations_) 86

To bed ye two in one united go (_Baron_) 117

To her whose beauty doth excel (_Wits Interpreter_) 75

Two lovers sat lamenting (_Corkine_) 91

Under the willow-shades they were (_Davenant_) 89

Underneath this myrtle shade (_Windsor Drollery_) 26

What though Flora frowns on me (_Tixall Poetry_) 108

When doth Love set forth desire? (_Academy of Compliments_) 100

When first Amyntas sued for a kiss (_D'Urfey_) 103

When I do love I wish to taste the fruit (_Harl. MS. 6917_) 5

When Phoebus first did Daphne love (_John Dowland_) 55

Why is your faithful slave disdain'd (_Banquet of Music_) 59

Why, Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she. (_Oxford Drollery_) 23

Why should passion lead thee blind (_Harl. MS. 791_) 56

Would you be a man of fashion (_Tixall Poetry_) 116

Would you know earth's highest pleasure (_Tixall Poetry_) 116

Yes, I could love if I could find (_Malone MS. 16_) 57

You nimble dreams with cobweb wings (_Sloane MS. 1792_) 51

You that in the midst of night (_Ashmole MS. 38_) 58

Your smiles are not as other women's be (_Townsend_) 126

SPECULUM AMANTIS.

From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.

IF[2] my lady bid begin, Shall I say "No: 'tis a sin"? If she bid me kiss and play, Shall I shrink, cold fool, away? If she clap my cheeks and spy Little Cupids in my eye, Gripe my hand and stroke my hair, Shall I like a faint heart fear? No, no, no: let those that lie In dismal prison, and would die, Despair and fear; let those that cry They are forsaken and would fly, Quit their fortunes; mine are free: Hope makes me hardy, so does she.

[2] Also found in Dr. John Wilson's _Cheerful Airs_, 1660, and other collections.

From _Harl. MS._ 6917. fol. 38.

LET common beauties have the power To make one love-sick for an hour, Perhaps for one whole day or two; But so to captivate a heart As it should never, never part, None hath that art But only you.

Let meaner beauties have the skill, By tempering hopes with fears, to kill And by degrees a heart undo; But with a sweet, yet tyrant, eye At once to bid one look and die, None hath that power But only you.

Fair wonder, to those charming eyes A heart I fain would sacrifice, Had I but e'er a one in store; But having lost mine long before, Well may I sigh, wish, and adore, But for my life Can die no more.

From _Harl. MS._ 6917.

A MOTION TO PLEASURE.

STILL to affect, still to admire, Yet never satisfy desire With touch of hand, or lip, or that Which pleaseth best (I name not what),-- Like Tantalus I pining die, Taking Love's dainties at the eye.

Nature made nothing but for use, And, fairest, 'twere a gross abuse To her best work if you it hold Unused, like misers' ill-got gold, Or keep it in a virgin scorn, Like rich robes that are seldom worn.

From _Add. MS._ 22601.

CONSTANT wives are comforts to men's lives, Drawing a happy yoke without debate; A playfellow that far off all grief drives; A steward, early that provides and late: Faithful and chaste, sober, mild, loving, trusty, Nurse to weak age and pleasure to the lusty.

From _Folly in Print, or a Book of Rhymes_, 1667.

OF LOVE.

CUPID[3] is an idle toy, Never was there such a boy: If there were, let any show Or his quiver or his bow, Or the wound by him he got By a broken arrow shot. _Money, Money, Money_ makes men bow; That's the only Cupid now. Whilst the world continued good, And men loved for flesh and blood, Men about them wore a dart Which did win a woman's heart; And the women, great and small, With a certain thing they call _Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me_, caught the men: This was th' only Cupid then.

[3] These verses are printed (with some slight alterations) in _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655. For "_Kiss Me_" (l. 15) _Wit's Interpreter_ gives a word to rhyme with "_Money_" (l. 7).

From _Harl. MS._ 6917, fol. 87.

WHEN[4] I do love I wish to taste the fruit, And to attain to what my hopes aspire; Refusal's better than a lingering suit, Long hopes do dull and senseless make desire: And in most desperate case doth he remain That's sick to death, yet senseless of his pain.

Hope is the bloom, fruition is the fruit; Hope promises, enjoying is content; Hope pleads, fruition's an obtained suit; Enjoying's sweet when hope and fears are spent: Hopes are uncertain, past pleasures leave some taste, But sweet fruition always pleaseth best.

[4] "There was probably a close connection here with the Song on Love, beginning, 'When I do love, I would not wish to speed,' printed in _Parnassus Biceps_, 1656, p. 82, and reprinted by Robert Jamieson, in _Popular Ballads_, ii. 311."--_J. W. Ebsworth._

From THOMAS CAMPION'S _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1617).

BEAUTY,[5] since you so much desire To know the place of Cupid's fire, About you somewhere doth it rest, Yet never harbour'd in your breast, Nor gout-like in your heel or toe: What fool would seek love's flame so low? But a little higher, but a little higher, There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.

Think not when Cupid most you scorn Men judge that you of ice were born; For, though you cast love at your heel, His fury yet sometime you feel: And whereabouts if you would know, I tell you still not in your toe: But a little higher, but a little higher, There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.

[5] This jocular song must have been written long before the date of publication, for a quotation from it occurs in _Eastward Ho_, 1605. (In Campion and Rosseter's _Book of Airs_, 1601, there is a song beginning, "Mistress, since you so much desire"; but Gertrude, in _Eastward Ho_, iii. 2--"But a little higher," &c.--was evidently quoting from the present song).

From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.

COME, Phillis, let's to yonder grove, That I may tell thee how I love; And how I've suffer'd every day Since thou hast stol'n my heart away; How many nights I've lain awake And sigh'd away for Phillis' sake. This, Phillis, this shall be our talk Whilst hand in hand we gently walk; Then down we'll sit in yonder shade A myrtle has for lovers made; And when I've called thee duck and dear, And wooed thee with a sigh or tear, If love, or pity on thy swain, Move Phillis' heart to cure my pain, Then like two billing turtles we Will do what none but Love shall see.

From _Vinculum Societatis, or the Tie of Good Company_, 1687.

CHLORIS saw me sigh and tremble, And then ask'd why I did so; Love like mine can ill dissemble:-- Chloris 'tis for love of you, For those pretty tempting graces Of your smiling lips and eyes, For those pressing close embraces When your snowy breasts do rise;

For those joys of which the trial Only can instruct your heart What you lose by your denial, When Love draws his pleasing dart; For those kisses in perfection Which a wanton soul like mine, Form'd by Cupid's own direction, Could infuse too into thine;

For those shapes, my lovely Chloris, And a thousand charming things, For which monarchs might implore you To beget a race of kings; And for which I fain would whisper, But my heart is still afraid,-- Yet 'tis that young ladies wish for Every night they go to bed.

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.

DOWN[6] in a garden sat my dearest love, Her skin more soft than down of swan, More tender-hearted than the turtle dove And far more kind than bleeding pelican. I courted her; she rose and blushing said, "Why was I born to live and die a maid?" With that I plucked a pretty marigold, Whose dewy leaves shut up when day is done: "Sweeting," I said, "arise, look and behold, A pretty riddle I'll to thee unfold: These leaves shut in as close as cloistered nun, Yet will they open when they see the sun." "What mean you by this riddle, sir?" she said; "I pray expound it." Then I thus begun: "Are not men made for maids and maids for men?" With that she changed her colour and grew wan. "Since that this riddle you so well unfold, Be you the sun, I'll be the marigold."

[6] In the 1671 edition of _Wit's Interpreter_ this poem is headed "Love's Riddle Resolved." It is found in several miscellanies of the time.

["Amplified and spun out, it became a ballad printed for the assigns of Thomas Symcocke, in _Roxburghe Collection_, l. 242, a probably unique exemplar, entitled 'The Maid's Comfort.'"--_J. W. Ebsworth._]

_Rawlinson Poetry MS._, 117, fol. 144.

DUNCES in love, how long shall we Be poring on our A. B. C.? For such are kisses, which torment Rather than give my self-content; Letters from which you scarce will prove The wisest scholars can spell love. What though the lily of your hand Or coral lip I may command? It is but like him up to th' chin Whose mouth can touch but take not in.

From _Sportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment_, 1656.

HARK,[7] my Flora! Love doth call us To that strife that must befall us. He has robb'd his mother's myrtles And hath pull'd her downy turtles. See, our genial posts are crown'd, And our beds like billows rise; Softer[8] combat's nowhere found, And who loses wins the prize.

Let not dark nor shadows fright thee; Thy limbs of lustre they will light thee. Fear not any can surprise us, Love himself doth now disguise us. From thy waist the girdle throw: Night and darkness both dwell here: Words or actions who can know, Where there's neither eye nor ear?