οὐκ ἔστι γήμας ὅστις οὐ χειμάζεται,λέγουσι πάντες· καὶ γαμοῦσιν εἰδότες.Anthol. Græc.
οὐκ ἔστι γήμας ὅστις οὐ χειμάζεται,λέγουσι πάντες· καὶ γαμοῦσιν εἰδότες.Anthol. Græc.
Fondwanton youths make love a GodWhich after proveth Age’s rod;Their youth, their time, their wit, their artThey 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 chooseForthwith 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 esteemBut 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 grantOr 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 obeyAnd forcèd be perforce to say,—Of all our bliss it is the chief,Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
Fondwanton youths make love a GodWhich after proveth Age’s rod;Their youth, their time, their wit, their artThey spend in seeking of their smart;And, which of follies is the chief,They woo their woe, they wed their grief.
Fondwanton youths make love a God
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 chooseForthwith 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 esteemBut 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 grantOr 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 obeyAnd forcèd be perforce to say,—Of all our bliss it is the chief,Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
FromWilliam Byrd’sSongs of Sundry Natures, 1589.
FromCitheron the warlike boy is fledAnd 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 eyesThe arrow flies,Feather’d with flame, arm’d with a golden head.Her careless thoughts are freèd of that flameWherewith her thralls are scorchèd to the heart:If Love would so, would God the enchanting dartMight once return and burn from whence it came!Not to deface of Beauty’s work the frame,But by reboundIt might be foundWhat 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 rodTo 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.
FromCitheron the warlike boy is fledAnd 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 eyesThe arrow flies,Feather’d with flame, arm’d with a golden head.
FromCitheron the warlike boy is fled
Her careless thoughts are freèd of that flameWherewith her thralls are scorchèd to the heart:If Love would so, would God the enchanting dartMight once return and burn from whence it came!Not to deface of Beauty’s work the frame,But by reboundIt might be foundWhat 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 rodTo 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.
FromJohn Dowland’sSecond Book of Songs and Airs, 1600.
To Master Hugh Holland.FromFame’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 placèd 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!
To Master Hugh Holland.
FromFame’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!
FromFame’s desire, from Love’s delight retired,
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 placèd 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!
FromThomas Campion’sTwo Books of Airs(circ. 1613).
GiveBeauty all her right!She’s not to one form tied;Each shape yields fair delightWhere 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 boundTo one unmovèd clime;She visits every groundAnd favours every time.Let the old loves with mine compare,My sovereign is as sweet and fair.[4]Old ed. “smelling.”
GiveBeauty all her right!She’s not to one form tied;Each shape yields fair delightWhere her perfections bide:Helen, I grant, might pleasing be,And Ros’mond was as sweet as she.
GiveBeauty all her right!
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 boundTo one unmovèd clime;She visits every groundAnd favours every time.Let the old loves with mine compare,My sovereign is as sweet and fair.
[4]Old ed. “smelling.”
[4]Old ed. “smelling.”
FromJohn Dowland’sFirst Book of Songs or Airs, 1597.
Gocrystal 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 breathDissolve 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 sacrificeBoth from a spotless heart and patient eyes.
Gocrystal 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.
Gocrystal tears! like to the morning showers,
Haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breathDissolve 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 sacrificeBoth from a spotless heart and patient eyes.
FromEgertonMS., 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 tyrannizeWhen 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 theeHave been so ill requited.But now I find ’tis I must proveThat men have no compassion;When we are won, you never lovePoor women, but for fashion,Do recompense my love with hate,And kill my heart! I’m sureThou’lt one day say, when ’tis too late,Thou never hadst a truer.
Go, turn away those cruel eyes,For they have quite undone me;They used not so to tyrannizeWhen first those glances won me.
Go, turn away those cruel eyes,
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 theeHave been so ill requited.
But now I find ’tis I must proveThat men have no compassion;When we are won, you never lovePoor women, but for fashion,
Do recompense my love with hate,And kill my heart! I’m sureThou’lt one day say, when ’tis too late,Thou never hadst a truer.
FromThomas Campion’sSecond Book of Airs(circ. 1613).
Goodmen 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 gainFrom her implorèd 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 caughtWith every gaudy bait he sees:And, too late, my flame is taughtThat 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.
Goodmen 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.”
Goodmen show! if you can tell,
Oh! if such a saint there be,Some hope yet remains for me:Prayer or sacrifice may gainFrom her implorèd 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 caughtWith every gaudy bait he sees:And, too late, my flame is taughtThat 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.
FromThomas Weelkes’Airs or Fantastic Spirits, 1608.
Haha! ha ha! this world doth passMost merrily, I’ll be sworn;For many an honest Indian assGoes for an Unicorn.Farra, diddle dino;This is idle fino.Ty hye! ty hye! O sweet delight!He tickles this age that canCall Tullia’s ape a marmosyteAnd 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.
Haha! ha ha! this world doth passMost merrily, I’ll be sworn;For many an honest Indian assGoes for an Unicorn.Farra, diddle dino;This is idle fino.
Haha! ha ha! this world doth pass
Ty hye! ty hye! O sweet delight!He tickles this age that canCall Tullia’s ape a marmosyteAnd 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.
FromRobert Jones’sUltimum Vale or Third Book of Airs(1608).
HappyheWho, to sweet home retired,Shuns glory so admired,And to himself lives free,Whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skiesFalls down with foul disgrace before he rise.Let who willThe active life commendAnd all his travels bendEarth 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 mindNot 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 beThey one day say of me‘He died a good old man’:On his sad soul a heavy burden liesWho, known to all, unknown to himself dies.[5]Qy. “hammers”?
HappyheWho, to sweet home retired,Shuns glory so admired,And to himself lives free,Whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skiesFalls down with foul disgrace before he rise.
Happyhe
Let who willThe active life commendAnd all his travels bendEarth 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 mindNot 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 beThey one day say of me‘He died a good old man’:On his sad soul a heavy burden liesWho, known to all, unknown to himself dies.
[5]Qy. “hammers”?
[5]Qy. “hammers”?
FromJohn Wilbye’sSecond Set of Madrigals, 1609.
Happy, O! happy he, who not affectingThe 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 stageWhereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.
Happy, O! happy he, who not affectingThe 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 stageWhereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.
Happy, O! happy he, who not affecting
FromFrancis Pilkington’sFirst Set Of Madrigals, 1613.
HaveI found her? O rich finding!Goddess-like for to behold,Her fair tresses seemly bindingIn a chain of pearl and gold.Chain me, chain me, O most fair,Chain me to thee with that hair!
HaveI found her? O rich finding!Goddess-like for to behold,Her fair tresses seemly bindingIn a chain of pearl and gold.Chain me, chain me, O most fair,Chain me to thee with that hair!
HaveI found her? O rich finding!
FromJohn Mundy’sSongs and Psalms, 1594.
Heighho! chill go to plough no more!Sit down and take thy rest;Of golden groats I have full storeTo 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 cryHeigh ho! for love I die.
Heighho! chill go to plough no more!Sit down and take thy rest;Of golden groats I have full storeTo 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 cryHeigh ho! for love I die.
Heighho! chill go to plough no more!
FromJohn Maynard’sTwelve Wonders of the World, 1611.
The Bachelor.Howmany things as yetAre dear alike to me!The field, the horse, the dog,Love, arms, or liberty.I have no wife as yetThat I may call mine own;I have no children yetThat by my name are known.Yet, if I married were,I would not wish to thriveIf that I could not tameThe veriest shrew alive.
The Bachelor.
Howmany things as yetAre dear alike to me!The field, the horse, the dog,Love, arms, or liberty.
Howmany things as yet
I have no wife as yetThat I may call mine own;I have no children yetThat by my name are known.
Yet, if I married were,I would not wish to thriveIf that I could not tameThe veriest shrew alive.
FromThomas Ford’sMusic of Sundry Kinds, 1607.
Howshall I then describe my Love?When all men’s skilful artIs 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 restAnd take delight to be,And where all virtues graft themselvesIn 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 rockFrom whence she springs: but happiest heThat grafts in such a stock.
Howshall I then describe my Love?When all men’s skilful artIs far inferior to her worth,To praise the unworthiest part.
Howshall I then describe my Love?
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 restAnd take delight to be,And where all virtues graft themselvesIn 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 rockFrom whence she springs: but happiest heThat grafts in such a stock.
FromHenry Lichfild’sFirst Set of Madrigals, 1613.
I alwaysloved to call my lady Rose,For in her cheeks roses do sweetly glose,And from her lips she such sweet odours threwAs roses do ’gainst Phœbus’ morning-view:But when I thought to pull’t, hope was bereft me,—My rose was gone and naught but prickles left me.
I alwaysloved to call my lady Rose,For in her cheeks roses do sweetly glose,And from her lips she such sweet odours threwAs roses do ’gainst Phœbus’ morning-view:But when I thought to pull’t, hope was bereft me,—My rose was gone and naught but prickles left me.
I alwaysloved to call my lady Rose,
FromMelismata, 1611.
A Wooing Song of a Yeoman of Kent’s Son.Ihave 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 holdAnd in my mind zeems passing rare.Chorus.And eke thou hast his heart in holdAnd in his mind seems passing rare.Ich will put on my best white slopsAnd 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.
A Wooing Song of a Yeoman of Kent’s Son.
Ihave 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.
Ihave house and land in Kent,
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 holdAnd in my mind zeems passing rare.Chorus.And eke thou hast his heart in holdAnd in his mind seems passing rare.
Ich will put on my best white slopsAnd 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.
FromWilliam Byrd’sPsalms, Sonnets, and Songs of Sadness and Piety, 1588.
I joynot in no earthly bliss,I force not Crœsus’ wealth a straw;For care I know not what it isI fear not Fortune’s fatal law:My mind is such as may not moveFor 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 shoreAnd laugh at them that toil in vainTo 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 bothDoth surest sit and fears no fall.This is my choice: for why? I findNo wealth is like the quiet mind.
I joynot in no earthly bliss,I force not Crœsus’ wealth a straw;For care I know not what it isI fear not Fortune’s fatal law:My mind is such as may not moveFor beauty bright nor force of love.
I joynot in no earthly bliss,
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 shoreAnd laugh at them that toil in vainTo 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 bothDoth surest sit and fears no fall.This is my choice: for why? I findNo wealth is like the quiet mind.
FromJohn Wilbye’sSecond 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 jarDoth cause in store such want, in peace such war?Risposta.There is a jewel which no Indian minesCan 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.
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 jarDoth cause in store such want, in peace such war?
I live, and yet methinks I do not breathe;
Risposta.There is a jewel which no Indian minesCan 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.
FromJohn Maynard’sTwelve Wonders of the World, 1611.
The Maid.Imarriage would forswear,But that I hear men tellThat she that dies a maidMust lead an ape in hell.Therefore, if fortune come,I will not mock and playNor drive the bargain onTill it be driven away.Titles and lands I like,Yet rather fancy canA man that wanteth goldThan gold that wants a man.
The Maid.
Imarriage would forswear,But that I hear men tellThat she that dies a maidMust lead an ape in hell.
Imarriage would forswear,
Therefore, if fortune come,I will not mock and playNor drive the bargain onTill it be driven away.
Titles and lands I like,Yet rather fancy canA man that wanteth goldThan gold that wants a man.
FromJohn Maynard’sTwelve Wonders of the World, 1611.
The Married Man.Ionly am the manAmong all married menThat do not wish the priest,To be unlinked again.And though my shoe did wringI would not make my moan,Nor think my neighbours’ chanceMore happy than mine own.Yet court I not my wife,But yield observance due,Being neither fond nor cross,Nor jealous nor untrue.
The Married Man.
Ionly am the manAmong all married menThat do not wish the priest,To be unlinked again.
Ionly am the man
And though my shoe did wringI would not make my moan,Nor think my neighbours’ chanceMore happy than mine own.
Yet court I not my wife,But yield observance due,Being neither fond nor cross,Nor jealous nor untrue.
FromJohn Dowland’sSecond Book of Songs or Airs, 1600.
I sawmy Lady weep,And sorrow proud to be advancèd soIn those fair eyes where all perfections keep.Her face was full of woe,But such a woe (believe me) as wins more heartsThan 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 moveAs made my heart at once both grieve and love.O fairer than aught elseThe 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.
I sawmy Lady weep,And sorrow proud to be advancèd soIn those fair eyes where all perfections keep.Her face was full of woe,But such a woe (believe me) as wins more heartsThan Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
I sawmy Lady weep,
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 moveAs made my heart at once both grieve and love.
O fairer than aught elseThe 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.
FromJohn Wilbye’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1598.
I sungsometime my thoughts and fancy’s pleasure,Where I did list, or time served best and leisure;While Daphne did invite meTo 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.
I sungsometime my thoughts and fancy’s pleasure,Where I did list, or time served best and leisure;While Daphne did invite meTo 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.
I sungsometime my thoughts and fancy’s pleasure,
FromOrlando Gibbons’First Set of Madrigals, 1612.
I weighnot 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 haveI 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 estateNe yet too lofty, nor too base,This is all my choice, my cheer—A mind content and conscience clear.
I weighnot 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 haveI wish no more, no more I crave.
I weighnot Fortune’s frown nor smile,
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 estateNe yet too lofty, nor too base,This is all my choice, my cheer—A mind content and conscience clear.
FromThomas Morley’sMadrigals to Four Voices, 1600.
Iwill no more come to theeThat flout’st me when I woo thee;Still ty hy thou criestAnd all my lovely rings and pins denyest.O say, alas, what moves theeTo grieve him so that loves thee?Leave, alas, then, ah leave tormentingAnd give my burning some relenting.
Iwill no more come to theeThat flout’st me when I woo thee;Still ty hy thou criestAnd all my lovely rings and pins denyest.O say, alas, what moves theeTo grieve him so that loves thee?Leave, alas, then, ah leave tormentingAnd give my burning some relenting.
Iwill no more come to thee
FromRobert Jones’First Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
Iffathers knew but how to leaveTheir children wit as they do wealth,And could constrain them to receiveThat physic which brings perfect health,The world would not admiring standA 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 sayWe must commend, be’t ne’er so ill:Thus we, like fools, admiring standHer pretty foot and pretty hand.We blame their pride, which we increaseBy making mountains of a mouse;We praise because we know we please;Poor women are too credulousTo think that we admiring standOr foot, or face, or foolish hand.
Iffathers knew but how to leaveTheir children wit as they do wealth,And could constrain them to receiveThat physic which brings perfect health,The world would not admiring standA woman’s face and woman’s hand.
Iffathers knew but how to leave
Women confess they must obey,We men will needs be servants still;We kiss their hands, and what they sayWe must commend, be’t ne’er so ill:Thus we, like fools, admiring standHer pretty foot and pretty hand.
We blame their pride, which we increaseBy making mountains of a mouse;We praise because we know we please;Poor women are too credulousTo think that we admiring standOr foot, or face, or foolish hand.
FromCampionandRosseter’sBook of Airs, 1601.
IfI 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 proveYet, 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.
IfI 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.
IfI urge my kind desires,
She hath often vowed her love:But alas no fruit I find.That her fires are false I proveYet, 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.
FromJohn Dowland’sFirst Book of Songs and Airs, 1597.
Ifmy complaints could passions move,Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong;My passions were enough to proveThat 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.”
Ifmy complaints could passions move,Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong;My passions were enough to proveThat my despairs had governed me too long.O Love, I live and die in thee!Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me.
Ifmy complaints could passions move,
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.”
FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs(circ. 1613).
Ifthou 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 winWay 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 kindAnd 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.
Ifthou 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 winWay to thy abashed desire,But then will I hedge thee in,Salamander-like, with fire.
Ifthou long’st so much to learn, sweet boy, what ’tis to love,
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 kindAnd 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.
FromWilliam Byrd’sPsalms, Sonnets and Songs, 1588.
Ifwomen could be fair and never fond,Or that their beauty might continue still,I would not marvel though they made men bondBy 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 fistAnd 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 oathThe 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.”
Ifwomen could be fair and never fond,Or that their beauty might continue still,I would not marvel though they made men bondBy service long to purchase their goodwill:But when I see how frail these creatures are,I laugh that men forget themselves so far.
Ifwomen could be fair and never fond,
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 fistAnd 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 oathThe 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.”
[6]So Oliphant.—Old ed., “Scorning after reason to follow will.”
FromWilliam Byrd’sPsalms, Songs, and Sonnets, 1611.
Incrystal towers and turrets richly setWith 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 stayIn simple cotes enclosed with walls of clay.[7]Dwell.
Incrystal towers and turrets richly setWith 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 stayIn simple cotes enclosed with walls of clay.
Incrystal towers and turrets richly set
[7]Dwell.
[7]Dwell.
FromJohn Coprario’sFuneral Tears, etc., 1606.
Indarkness 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 tombO 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.
Indarkness 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 tombO let me dying live till death doth come.
Indarkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be,
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.
FromJohn Mundy’sSongs and Psalms, 1594.