Inmidst of woods or pleasant grove,Where all sweet birds do sing,Methought I heard so rare a soundWhich made the heavens to ring.The charm was good, the noise full sweet,Each bird did play his part;And I admired to hear the same,Joy sprang into my heart.The black bird made the sweetest sound,Whose tunes did far excel;Full pleasantly, and most profoundWas all things placed well.Thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird,Done with so good a grace,Extolls thy name, prefers the sameAbroad in every place.Thy music grave, bedeckèd wellWith sundry points of skill,Bewrays thy knowledge excellentIngrafted in thy will.My tongue shall speak, my pen shall writeIn praise of thee to tell;The sweetest bird that ever was,In friendly sort farewell.
Inmidst of woods or pleasant grove,Where all sweet birds do sing,Methought I heard so rare a soundWhich made the heavens to ring.
Inmidst of woods or pleasant grove,
The charm was good, the noise full sweet,Each bird did play his part;And I admired to hear the same,Joy sprang into my heart.
The black bird made the sweetest sound,Whose tunes did far excel;Full pleasantly, and most profoundWas all things placed well.
Thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird,Done with so good a grace,Extolls thy name, prefers the sameAbroad in every place.
Thy music grave, bedeckèd wellWith sundry points of skill,Bewrays thy knowledge excellentIngrafted in thy will.
My tongue shall speak, my pen shall writeIn praise of thee to tell;The sweetest bird that ever was,In friendly sort farewell.
FromThomas Weelkes’Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.
Inpride of MayThe fields are gay,The birds do sweetly sing. Fa la la!So Nature wouldThat all things shouldWith joy begin the spring. Fa la la!Then, Lady dear,Do you appearIn beauty like the spring: Fa la la!I dare well sayThe birds that dayMore cheerfully will sing. Fa la la!
Inpride of MayThe fields are gay,The birds do sweetly sing. Fa la la!So Nature wouldThat all things shouldWith joy begin the spring. Fa la la!
Inpride of May
Then, Lady dear,Do you appearIn beauty like the spring: Fa la la!I dare well sayThe birds that dayMore cheerfully will sing. Fa la la!
FromRobert Jones’sMusical Dream, 1609.
Φεύγειν δὴ τὸν Ἔρωτα κενὸς πόνος.—Archias.
Φεύγειν δὴ τὸν Ἔρωτα κενὸς πόνος.—Archias.
InSherwood lived stout Robin Hood,An archer great, none greater,His bow and shafts were sure and good,Yet Cupid’s were much better;Robin could shoot at many a hart and miss,Cupid at first could hit a heart of his.Hey, jolly Robin Hood, ho jolly Robin Hood,Love finds out meAs well as thee,To follow me to the green-wood.A noble thief was Robin Hood,Wise was he could deceive him;Yet Marian in his bravest moodCould of his heart bereave him:No greater thief lies hidden under skies,Than beauty closely lodged in women’s eyes.Hey, jolly Robin, &c.An outlaw was this Robin Hood,His life free and unruly,Yet to fair Marian bound he stoodAnd love’s debt paid her duly:Whom curb of strictest law could not hold in,Love[8]to obedience with a wink could win.Hey, jolly Robin, &c.Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood,Leave we the woods behind us,Love-passions must not be withstood,Love everywhere will find us.I lived in field and town, and so did he;I got me to the woods, Love followed me.Hey, jolly Robin, &c.[8]Old ed.,—“Love with obeyednes and a winke could winne.”
InSherwood lived stout Robin Hood,An archer great, none greater,His bow and shafts were sure and good,Yet Cupid’s were much better;Robin could shoot at many a hart and miss,Cupid at first could hit a heart of his.Hey, jolly Robin Hood, ho jolly Robin Hood,Love finds out meAs well as thee,To follow me to the green-wood.
InSherwood lived stout Robin Hood,
A noble thief was Robin Hood,Wise was he could deceive him;Yet Marian in his bravest moodCould of his heart bereave him:No greater thief lies hidden under skies,Than beauty closely lodged in women’s eyes.Hey, jolly Robin, &c.
An outlaw was this Robin Hood,His life free and unruly,Yet to fair Marian bound he stoodAnd love’s debt paid her duly:Whom curb of strictest law could not hold in,Love[8]to obedience with a wink could win.Hey, jolly Robin, &c.
Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood,Leave we the woods behind us,Love-passions must not be withstood,Love everywhere will find us.I lived in field and town, and so did he;I got me to the woods, Love followed me.Hey, jolly Robin, &c.
[8]Old ed.,—“Love with obeyednes and a winke could winne.”
[8]Old ed.,—“Love with obeyednes and a winke could winne.”
FromMichael Este’sMadrigals of three, four and five parts, 1604. (By Nicholas Breton. Originally published in 1591.)
Inthe merry month of May,On a morn by break of day,Forth I walk’d by the wood-side,Whereas May was in her pride:There I spyèd all alonePhillida and Corydon.Much ado there was, God wot!He would love and she would not.She said, never man was true;He said, none was false to you.He said, he had loved her long;She said, Love should have no wrong.Corydon would kiss her then;She said, maids must kiss no menTill they did for good and all;Then she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truthNever lov’d a truer youth.Thus with many a pretty oath,Yea and nay, and faith and troth,Such as seely shepherds useWhen they will not love abuse,Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded;And Phillida with garlands gayWas made the Lady of the May.
Inthe merry month of May,On a morn by break of day,Forth I walk’d by the wood-side,Whereas May was in her pride:There I spyèd all alonePhillida and Corydon.Much ado there was, God wot!He would love and she would not.She said, never man was true;He said, none was false to you.He said, he had loved her long;She said, Love should have no wrong.Corydon would kiss her then;She said, maids must kiss no menTill they did for good and all;Then she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truthNever lov’d a truer youth.Thus with many a pretty oath,Yea and nay, and faith and troth,Such as seely shepherds useWhen they will not love abuse,Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded;And Phillida with garlands gayWas made the Lady of the May.
Inthe merry month of May,
FromThomas Greaves’Songs of Sundry Kinds, 1604.
InconstantLaura makes me death to crave,For wanting her I must embrace my grave;A little grave will ease my maladyAnd set me free from love’s fell tyranny.Intomb me then and show her where I lie,And say I died through her inconstancy.
InconstantLaura makes me death to crave,For wanting her I must embrace my grave;A little grave will ease my maladyAnd set me free from love’s fell tyranny.Intomb me then and show her where I lie,And say I died through her inconstancy.
InconstantLaura makes me death to crave,
FromHenry Lichfild’sFirst Set of Madrigals, 1613.
Injurioushours, whilst any joy doth bless me,With speedy wings you fly and so release me;But if some sorrow do oppress my heart,You creep as if you never meant to part.
Injurioushours, whilst any joy doth bless me,With speedy wings you fly and so release me;But if some sorrow do oppress my heart,You creep as if you never meant to part.
Injurioushours, whilst any joy doth bless me,
FromWilliam Byrd’sSongs of Sundry Natures, 1589.
IsLove a boy,—what means he then to strike?Or is he blind,—why will he be a guide?Is he a man,—why doth he hurt his like?Is he a God,—why doth he men deride?No one of these, but one compact of all:A wilful boy, a man still dealing blows,Of purpose blind to lead men to their thrall,A god that rules unruly—God, he knows.Boy, pity me that am a child again;Blind, be no more my guide to make me stray;Man, use thy might to force away my pain;God, do me good and lead me to my way;And if thou beest a power to me unknown,Power of my life, let here thy grace be shown.
IsLove a boy,—what means he then to strike?Or is he blind,—why will he be a guide?Is he a man,—why doth he hurt his like?Is he a God,—why doth he men deride?No one of these, but one compact of all:A wilful boy, a man still dealing blows,Of purpose blind to lead men to their thrall,A god that rules unruly—God, he knows.
IsLove a boy,—what means he then to strike?
Boy, pity me that am a child again;Blind, be no more my guide to make me stray;Man, use thy might to force away my pain;God, do me good and lead me to my way;And if thou beest a power to me unknown,Power of my life, let here thy grace be shown.
FromMelismata, 1611.
The Marriage of the Frog and the Mouse.Itwas the frog in the well,Humbledum, humbledum,And the merry mouse in the mill,Tweedle, tweedle, twino.The frog would a wooing rideSword and buckler by his side.When he upon his high horse set,His boots they shone as black as jet.When he came to the merry mill-pin,—“Lady Mouse, been you within?”Then came out the dusty mouse:“I am Lady of this house:Hast thou any mind of me?”“I have e’en great mind of thee?”“Who shall this marriage make?”“Our Lord which is the rat,”“What shall we have to our supper?”“Three beans in a pound of butter?”When supper they were at,The frog, the mouse, and e’en the rat;Then came in Gib our cat,And catched the mouse e’en by the back.Then did they separate,And the frog leaped on the floor so flat.Then came in Dick our drake,And drew the frog e’en to the lake.The rat run up the wall,Humbledum, humbledum;A goodly company, the Devil go with all!Tweedle tweedle twino.
The Marriage of the Frog and the Mouse.
Itwas the frog in the well,Humbledum, humbledum,And the merry mouse in the mill,Tweedle, tweedle, twino.
Itwas the frog in the well,
The frog would a wooing rideSword and buckler by his side.
When he upon his high horse set,His boots they shone as black as jet.
When he came to the merry mill-pin,—“Lady Mouse, been you within?”
Then came out the dusty mouse:“I am Lady of this house:
Hast thou any mind of me?”“I have e’en great mind of thee?”
“Who shall this marriage make?”“Our Lord which is the rat,”
“What shall we have to our supper?”“Three beans in a pound of butter?”
When supper they were at,The frog, the mouse, and e’en the rat;
Then came in Gib our cat,And catched the mouse e’en by the back.
Then did they separate,And the frog leaped on the floor so flat.
Then came in Dick our drake,And drew the frog e’en to the lake.
The rat run up the wall,Humbledum, humbledum;A goodly company, the Devil go with all!Tweedle tweedle twino.
FromThomas Campion’sTwo Books of Airs(circ. 1613).
Jackand Joan, they think no ill,But loving live, and merry still;Do their week-days’ work, and prayDevoutly on the holy day:Skip and trip it on the green,And help to choose the Summer Queen;Lash out at a country feastTheir silver penny with the best.Well can they judge of nappy ale,And tell at large a winter tale;Climb up to the apple loft,And turn the crabs till they be soft.Tib is all the father’s joy,And little Tom the mother’s boy.All their pleasure is Content;And Care, to pay their yearly rent.Joan can call by name her cowsAnd deck her windows with green boughs;She can wreaths and tutties[9]make,And trim with plums a bridal cake.Jack knows what brings gain or loss;And his long flail can stoutly toss:Makes the hedge which others break,And ever thinks what he doth speak.Now, you courtly dames and knights,That study only strange delights;Though you scorn the homespun grayAnd revel in your rich array;Though your tongues dissemble deep,And can your heads from danger keep;Yet, for all your pomp and train,Securer lives the silly swain.[9]Nosegays.
Jackand Joan, they think no ill,But loving live, and merry still;Do their week-days’ work, and prayDevoutly on the holy day:Skip and trip it on the green,And help to choose the Summer Queen;Lash out at a country feastTheir silver penny with the best.
Jackand Joan, they think no ill,
Well can they judge of nappy ale,And tell at large a winter tale;Climb up to the apple loft,And turn the crabs till they be soft.Tib is all the father’s joy,And little Tom the mother’s boy.All their pleasure is Content;And Care, to pay their yearly rent.
Joan can call by name her cowsAnd deck her windows with green boughs;She can wreaths and tutties[9]make,And trim with plums a bridal cake.Jack knows what brings gain or loss;And his long flail can stoutly toss:Makes the hedge which others break,And ever thinks what he doth speak.
Now, you courtly dames and knights,That study only strange delights;Though you scorn the homespun grayAnd revel in your rich array;Though your tongues dissemble deep,And can your heads from danger keep;Yet, for all your pomp and train,Securer lives the silly swain.
[9]Nosegays.
[9]Nosegays.
FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs(circ. 1613).
Kindare her answers,But her performance keeps no day;Breaks time, as dancers,From their own music when they stray.All her free favours and smooth wordsWing my hopes in vain.O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign?Can true love yield such delay,Converting joy to pain?Lost is our freedomWhen we submit to women so:Why do we need ’emWhen, in their best, they work our woe?There is no wisdomCan alter ends by Fate prefixt.O, why is the good of man with evil mixt?Never were days yet callèd twoBut one night went betwixt.
Kindare her answers,But her performance keeps no day;Breaks time, as dancers,From their own music when they stray.All her free favours and smooth wordsWing my hopes in vain.O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign?Can true love yield such delay,Converting joy to pain?
Kindare her answers,
Lost is our freedomWhen we submit to women so:Why do we need ’emWhen, in their best, they work our woe?There is no wisdomCan alter ends by Fate prefixt.O, why is the good of man with evil mixt?Never were days yet callèd twoBut one night went betwixt.
FromCampionandRosseter’sBook of Airs, 1601.
Kindin unkindness, when will you relentAnd cease with faint love true love to torment?Still entertained, excluded still I stand;Her glove still hold, but cannot touch the hand.In her fair hand my hopes and comforts rest:O might my fortunes with that hand be blest!No envious breaths then my deserts could shake,For they are good whom such true love doth make.O let not beauty so forget her birthThat it should fruitless home return to earth!Love is the fruit of beauty, then love one!Not your sweet self, for such self-love is none.Love one that only lives in loving you;Whose wronged deserts would you with pity view,This strange distaste which your affection swaysWould relish love, and you find better days.Thus till my happy sight your beauty views,Whose sweet remembrance still my hope renews,Let these poor lines solicit love for me,And place my joys where my desires would be.
Kindin unkindness, when will you relentAnd cease with faint love true love to torment?Still entertained, excluded still I stand;Her glove still hold, but cannot touch the hand.
Kindin unkindness, when will you relent
In her fair hand my hopes and comforts rest:O might my fortunes with that hand be blest!No envious breaths then my deserts could shake,For they are good whom such true love doth make.
O let not beauty so forget her birthThat it should fruitless home return to earth!Love is the fruit of beauty, then love one!Not your sweet self, for such self-love is none.
Love one that only lives in loving you;Whose wronged deserts would you with pity view,This strange distaste which your affection swaysWould relish love, and you find better days.
Thus till my happy sight your beauty views,Whose sweet remembrance still my hope renews,Let these poor lines solicit love for me,And place my joys where my desires would be.
FromThomas Weelkes’Madrigals of Five and Six Parts, 1600.
Lady, the birds right fairlyAre singing ever early;The lark, the thrush, the nightingale,The make-sport cuckoo and the quail.These sing of Love! then why sleep ye?To love your sleep it may not be.
Lady, the birds right fairlyAre singing ever early;The lark, the thrush, the nightingale,The make-sport cuckoo and the quail.These sing of Love! then why sleep ye?To love your sleep it may not be.
Lady, the birds right fairly
FromThomas Greaves’Songs of Sundry Kinds, 1604.
Lady, the melting crystal of your eyeLike frozen drops upon your cheeks did lie;Mine eye was dancing on them with delight,And saw love’s flames within them burning bright,Which did mine eye enticeTo play with burning ice;But O, my heart thus sporting with desire,My careless eye did set my heart on fire.O that a drop from such a sweet fount flyingShould flame like fire and leave my heart a-dying!I burn, my tears can never drench itTill in your eyes I bathe my heart and quench it:But there, alas, love with his fire lies sleeping,And all conspire to burn my heart with weeping.
Lady, the melting crystal of your eyeLike frozen drops upon your cheeks did lie;Mine eye was dancing on them with delight,And saw love’s flames within them burning bright,Which did mine eye enticeTo play with burning ice;But O, my heart thus sporting with desire,My careless eye did set my heart on fire.
Lady, the melting crystal of your eye
O that a drop from such a sweet fount flyingShould flame like fire and leave my heart a-dying!I burn, my tears can never drench itTill in your eyes I bathe my heart and quench it:But there, alas, love with his fire lies sleeping,And all conspire to burn my heart with weeping.
FromJohn Wilbye’sMadrigals, 1598.
Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting,Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,My eyes present me with a double doubting:For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposesWhether the roses be your lips or your lips [be] the roses.
Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting,Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,My eyes present me with a double doubting:For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposesWhether the roses be your lips or your lips [be] the roses.
Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting,
FromJ. Danyel’sSongs for the Lute, Viol and Voice, 1606.
Letnot Chloris think, becauseShe hath unvassel’d me,That her beauty can give lawsTo others that are free:I was made to be the preyAnd booty of her eyes!In my bosom, she may say.Her greatest kingdom lies.Though others may her brow adore,Yet more must I that therein see far moreThan any other’s eyes have power to see;She is to meMore than to any others she can be.I can discern more secret notesThat in the margin of her cheeks Love quotesThan any else besides have art to read;No looks proceedFrom those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.O then whyShould she flyFrom him to whom her sightDoth add so much above her might?Why should not sheStill joy to reign in me?
Letnot Chloris think, becauseShe hath unvassel’d me,That her beauty can give lawsTo others that are free:I was made to be the preyAnd booty of her eyes!In my bosom, she may say.Her greatest kingdom lies.
Letnot Chloris think, because
Though others may her brow adore,Yet more must I that therein see far moreThan any other’s eyes have power to see;She is to meMore than to any others she can be.I can discern more secret notesThat in the margin of her cheeks Love quotesThan any else besides have art to read;No looks proceedFrom those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.
O then whyShould she flyFrom him to whom her sightDoth add so much above her might?Why should not sheStill joy to reign in me?
FromWilliam Byrd’sPsalms, Songs and Sonnets, 1611.
Letnot the sluggish sleepClose up thy waking eye,Until with judgment deepThy daily deeds thou try:He that one sin in conscience keepsWhen he to quiet goes,More vent’rous is than he that sleepsWith twenty mortal foes.
Letnot the sluggish sleepClose up thy waking eye,Until with judgment deepThy daily deeds thou try:He that one sin in conscience keepsWhen he to quiet goes,More vent’rous is than he that sleepsWith twenty mortal foes.
Letnot the sluggish sleep
FromGeorge Mason’s andJohn Earsden’sAirs that were sung and played at Brougham Castle in Westmoreland in the King’s Entertainment given by the Earl of Cumberland, 1618.
Letus in a lovers’ roundCircle all this hallowed ground;Softly, softly trip and go,The light-foot Fairies jet it so.Forward then, and back again,Here and there and everywhere,Winding to and fro,Skipping high and louting low;And, like lovers, hand in hand,March around and make a stand.
Letus in a lovers’ roundCircle all this hallowed ground;Softly, softly trip and go,The light-foot Fairies jet it so.Forward then, and back again,Here and there and everywhere,Winding to and fro,Skipping high and louting low;And, like lovers, hand in hand,March around and make a stand.
Letus in a lovers’ round
FromThomas Weelkes’Madrigals of Six Parts, 1600.
Liketwo proud armies marching in the field,—Joining a thund’ring fight, each scorns to yield,—So in my heart your beauty and my reason:One claims the crown, the other says ’tis treason.But oh! your beauty shineth as the sun;And dazzled reason yields as quite undone.
Liketwo proud armies marching in the field,—Joining a thund’ring fight, each scorns to yield,—So in my heart your beauty and my reason:One claims the crown, the other says ’tis treason.But oh! your beauty shineth as the sun;And dazzled reason yields as quite undone.
Liketwo proud armies marching in the field,—
FromThomas Weelkes’Madrigals to Three, Four, Five and Six Voices, 1597.
Lo! country sport that seldom fades;A garland of the spring,A prize for dancing, country maidsWith merry pipes we bring.Then all at oncefor our towncries!Pipe on, for we will have the prize.
Lo! country sport that seldom fades;A garland of the spring,A prize for dancing, country maidsWith merry pipes we bring.Then all at oncefor our towncries!Pipe on, for we will have the prize.
Lo! country sport that seldom fades;
FromThomas Campion’sTwo Books of Airs(circ. 1613).
Lo, when back mine eyePilgrim-like I cast,What fearful ways I spieWhich, blinded, I securely passed!But now heaven hath drawnFrom my brows that night;As when the day doth dawn,So clears my long-imprisoned sight.Straight the Caves of HellDressed with flowers I see,Wherein False Pleasures dwell,That, winning most, most deadly be.Throngs of maskèd fiends,Winged like angels, fly;Even in the gates of friends,In fair disguise black dangers lie.Straight to heaven I raisedMy restorèd sight,And with loud voice I praisedTheLordof ever-during light.And since I had strayedFrom His ways so wide,His grace I humbly prayedHenceforth to be my guard and guide.
Lo, when back mine eyePilgrim-like I cast,What fearful ways I spieWhich, blinded, I securely passed!
Lo, when back mine eye
But now heaven hath drawnFrom my brows that night;As when the day doth dawn,So clears my long-imprisoned sight.
Straight the Caves of HellDressed with flowers I see,Wherein False Pleasures dwell,That, winning most, most deadly be.
Throngs of maskèd fiends,Winged like angels, fly;Even in the gates of friends,In fair disguise black dangers lie.
Straight to heaven I raisedMy restorèd sight,And with loud voice I praisedTheLordof ever-during light.
And since I had strayedFrom His ways so wide,His grace I humbly prayedHenceforth to be my guard and guide.
FromJohn Maynard’sTwelve Wonders of the World, 1611.
The Courtier.Longhave I lived in Court,Yet learned not all this whileTo sell poor suiters smoke,Nor where I hate to smile;Superiors to adore,Inferiors to despise,To flie from such as fall,To follow such as rise:To cloak a poor desireUnder a rich array,Nor to aspire by Vice,Though ’twere the quicker way.
The Courtier.
Longhave I lived in Court,Yet learned not all this whileTo sell poor suiters smoke,Nor where I hate to smile;Superiors to adore,Inferiors to despise,To flie from such as fall,To follow such as rise:
Longhave I lived in Court,
To cloak a poor desireUnder a rich array,Nor to aspire by Vice,Though ’twere the quicker way.
FromRobert Jones’Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
Loveis a bable,No man is ableTo say ’tis this or ’tis that;So full of passionsOf sundry fashions,’Tis like I cannot tell what.Love’s fair in the cradle,Foul in the fable,’Tis either too cold or too hot;An arrant liar,Fed by desire,It is and yet it is not.Love is a fellowClad oft in yellow,[10]The canker-worm of the mind,A privy mischief,And such a sly thiefNo man knows which way to find.Love is a wonderThat’s here and yonder,As common to one as to moe;A monstrous cheater,Every man’s debtor;Hang him and so let him go.[10]The colour of jealousy.
Loveis a bable,No man is ableTo say ’tis this or ’tis that;So full of passionsOf sundry fashions,’Tis like I cannot tell what.
Loveis a bable,
Love’s fair in the cradle,Foul in the fable,’Tis either too cold or too hot;An arrant liar,Fed by desire,It is and yet it is not.
Love is a fellowClad oft in yellow,[10]The canker-worm of the mind,A privy mischief,And such a sly thiefNo man knows which way to find.
Love is a wonderThat’s here and yonder,As common to one as to moe;A monstrous cheater,Every man’s debtor;Hang him and so let him go.
[10]The colour of jealousy.
[10]The colour of jealousy.
FromJohn Wilbye’sSecond Set of Madrigals, 1609.
Lovenot me for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part:No, nor for a constant heart!For these may fail or turn to ill:So thou and I shall sever.Keep therefore a true woman’s eye,And love me still, but know not why!So hast thou the same reason stillTo doat upon me ever.
Lovenot me for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part:No, nor for a constant heart!For these may fail or turn to ill:So thou and I shall sever.Keep therefore a true woman’s eye,And love me still, but know not why!So hast thou the same reason stillTo doat upon me ever.
Lovenot me for comely grace,
FromRobert Jones’Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
Love’sgod is a boy,None but cowherds regard him,His dart is a toy,Great opinion hath marred him:The fear of the wagHath made him so brag;Chide him, he’ll flie theeAnd not come nigh thee.Little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random,For if you hit me, slave, I’ll tell your grandam.Fond love is a childAnd his compass is narrow,Young fools are beguiledWith the fame of his arrow;He dareth not strikeIf his stroke do mislike:Cupid, do you hear me?Come not too near me.Little boy, pretty knave, hence I beseech you,For if you hit me, knave, in faith I’ll breech you.Th’ ape loves to meddleWhen he finds a man idle,Else is he a-flirtingWhere his mark is a-courting;When women grow trueCome teach me to sue,Then I’ll come to theePray thee and woo thee.Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger,For if you hit me, knave, I’ll call thee, beggar.
Love’sgod is a boy,None but cowherds regard him,His dart is a toy,Great opinion hath marred him:The fear of the wagHath made him so brag;Chide him, he’ll flie theeAnd not come nigh thee.Little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random,For if you hit me, slave, I’ll tell your grandam.
Love’sgod is a boy,
Fond love is a childAnd his compass is narrow,Young fools are beguiledWith the fame of his arrow;He dareth not strikeIf his stroke do mislike:Cupid, do you hear me?Come not too near me.Little boy, pretty knave, hence I beseech you,For if you hit me, knave, in faith I’ll breech you.
Th’ ape loves to meddleWhen he finds a man idle,Else is he a-flirtingWhere his mark is a-courting;When women grow trueCome teach me to sue,Then I’ll come to theePray thee and woo thee.Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger,For if you hit me, knave, I’ll call thee, beggar.
FromRobert Jones’Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
Lovewinged my hopes and taught me how to flyFar from base earth, but not to mount too high;For true pleasureLives in measure,Which if men forsake,Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.But my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,Enamoured sought to woo the sun’s fair light,Whose rich brightnessMoved their lightnessTo aspire so highThat all scorched and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie.And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,For Love did know that their desires were true;Though Fate frownèd,And now drownèdThey in sorrow dwell,It was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell.
Lovewinged my hopes and taught me how to flyFar from base earth, but not to mount too high;For true pleasureLives in measure,Which if men forsake,Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.
Lovewinged my hopes and taught me how to fly
But my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,Enamoured sought to woo the sun’s fair light,Whose rich brightnessMoved their lightnessTo aspire so highThat all scorched and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie.
And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,For Love did know that their desires were true;Though Fate frownèd,And now drownèdThey in sorrow dwell,It was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell.
FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs(circ. 1613).
“Maidsare simple,” some men say,“They forsooth will trust no men.”But should they men’s wills obey,Maids were very simple then.Truth a rare flower now is grown,Few men wear it in their hearts;Lovers are more easily knownBy their follies than deserts.Safer may we credit giveTo a faithless wandering Jew,Than a young man’s vows believeWhen he swears his love is true.Love they make a poor blind child,But let none trust such as he;Rather than to be beguiled,Ever let me simple be.
“Maidsare simple,” some men say,“They forsooth will trust no men.”But should they men’s wills obey,Maids were very simple then.
Maidsare simple,” some men say,
Truth a rare flower now is grown,Few men wear it in their hearts;Lovers are more easily knownBy their follies than deserts.
Safer may we credit giveTo a faithless wandering Jew,Than a young man’s vows believeWhen he swears his love is true.
Love they make a poor blind child,But let none trust such as he;Rather than to be beguiled,Ever let me simple be.
FromMelismata, 1611.
The Bellman’s Song.Maidsto bed and cover coal;Let the mouse out of her hole;Crickets in the chimney singWhilst the little bell doth ring;If fast asleep, who can tellWhen the clapper hits the bell?
The Bellman’s Song.
Maidsto bed and cover coal;Let the mouse out of her hole;Crickets in the chimney singWhilst the little bell doth ring;If fast asleep, who can tellWhen the clapper hits the bell?
Maidsto bed and cover coal;
FromMartin Peerson’sMottects or Grave Chamber-Music, 1630.
Morethan most fair, full of all heavenly fire,Kindled above to shew the Maker’s glory;Beauty’s first-born, in whom all powers conspireTo write the Graces’ life and Muses’ story;If in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd,Honour the shrine where you alone are placèd.Thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits,True character of honour in perfection,Thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits,And glorious prison of men’s pure affection:If in my heart all nymphs else be defacèdHonour the shrine where you alone are placèd.
Morethan most fair, full of all heavenly fire,Kindled above to shew the Maker’s glory;Beauty’s first-born, in whom all powers conspireTo write the Graces’ life and Muses’ story;If in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd,Honour the shrine where you alone are placèd.
Morethan most fair, full of all heavenly fire,
Thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits,True character of honour in perfection,Thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits,And glorious prison of men’s pure affection:If in my heart all nymphs else be defacèdHonour the shrine where you alone are placèd.
FromThomas Vautor’sSongs of divers Airs and Natures, 1619.
Mother, I will have a husband,And I will have him out of hand!Mother, I will sure have oneIn spite of her that will have none.John-a-Dun should have had me long ere this:He said I had good lips to kiss.Mother, I will sure have oneIn spite of her that will have none.For I have heard ’tis trim when folks do love;By good Sir John I swear now I will prove.For, Mother, I will sure have oneIn spite of her that will have none.To the town, therefore, will I gadTo get me a husband, good or bad.Mother, I will sure have oneIn spite of her that will have none.
Mother, I will have a husband,And I will have him out of hand!Mother, I will sure have oneIn spite of her that will have none.
Mother, I will have a husband,
John-a-Dun should have had me long ere this:He said I had good lips to kiss.Mother, I will sure have oneIn spite of her that will have none.
For I have heard ’tis trim when folks do love;By good Sir John I swear now I will prove.For, Mother, I will sure have oneIn spite of her that will have none.
To the town, therefore, will I gadTo get me a husband, good or bad.Mother, I will sure have oneIn spite of her that will have none.
FromMichael Este’sMadrigals of Three, Four and Five Parts, 1604.
Myhope a counsel with my heartHath long desired to be,And marvels much so dear a friendIs not retain’d by me.She doth condemn my hasteIn passing the estateOf my whole life into their handsWho nought repays but hate:And not sufficed with this, she says,I did release the rightOf my enjoyèd libertiesUnto your beauteous sight.
Myhope a counsel with my heartHath long desired to be,And marvels much so dear a friendIs not retain’d by me.
Myhope a counsel with my heart
She doth condemn my hasteIn passing the estateOf my whole life into their handsWho nought repays but hate:
And not sufficed with this, she says,I did release the rightOf my enjoyèd libertiesUnto your beauteous sight.
FromRobert Jones’Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
Mylove bound me with a kissThat I should no longer stay;When I felt so sweet a blissI had less power to part away:Alas, that women doth not knowKisses make men loath to go.Yes, she knows it but too well,For I heard when Venus’ doveIn her ear did softly tellThat kisses were the seals of love:O muse not then though it be so,Kisses make men loath to go.Wherefore did she thus inflameMy desires heat my blood,Instantly to quench the sameAnd starve whom she had given food?I the common sense can show,Kisses make men loath to go.Had she bid me go at firstIt would ne’er have grieved my heart,Hope delayed had been the worst;But ah to kiss and then to part!How deep it struck, speak, gods, you knowKisses make men loath to go.
Mylove bound me with a kissThat I should no longer stay;When I felt so sweet a blissI had less power to part away:Alas, that women doth not knowKisses make men loath to go.
Mylove bound me with a kiss
Yes, she knows it but too well,For I heard when Venus’ doveIn her ear did softly tellThat kisses were the seals of love:O muse not then though it be so,Kisses make men loath to go.
Wherefore did she thus inflameMy desires heat my blood,Instantly to quench the sameAnd starve whom she had given food?I the common sense can show,Kisses make men loath to go.
Had she bid me go at firstIt would ne’er have grieved my heart,Hope delayed had been the worst;But ah to kiss and then to part!How deep it struck, speak, gods, you knowKisses make men loath to go.
FromRobert Jones’Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
MyLove is neither young nor old,Not fiery-hot nor frozen-cold,But fresh and fair as springing briarBlooming the fruit of love’s desire;Not snowy-white nor rosy-red,But fair enough for shepherd’s bed;And such a love was never seenOn hill or dale or country-green.
MyLove is neither young nor old,Not fiery-hot nor frozen-cold,But fresh and fair as springing briarBlooming the fruit of love’s desire;Not snowy-white nor rosy-red,But fair enough for shepherd’s bed;And such a love was never seenOn hill or dale or country-green.
MyLove is neither young nor old,
FromWilliam Byrd’sPsalms, Sonnets, and Songs, 1588.
Mymind to me a kingdom is:Such perfect joy therein I findThat it excels all other blissThat God or nature hath assigned.Though much I want, that most would have,Yet still my mind forbids to crave.No princely port, nor wealthy store,No force to win a victory,No wily wit to salve a sore,No shape to win a loving eye;To none of these I yield as thrall!For why? my mind despise them all.I see that plenty surfeits oft,And hasty climbers soonest fall;I see that such as are aloft,Mishap doth threaten most of all.These get with toil, and keep with fear:Such cares my mind can never bear.I press to bear no haughty sway,I wish no more than may suffice,I do no more, than well I may;Look, what I want, my mind supplies.Lo, thus I triumph like a king,My mind content with any thing.I laugh not at another’s loss,Nor grudge not at another’s gain.No worldly waves my mind can toss,I brook that is another’s bane;I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend,I loathe not life nor dread mine end.My wealth is health and perfect ease;And conscience clear my chief defence;I never seek by bribes to please,Nor by desert to give offence,Thus do I live, thus will I die:Would all did so as well as I!
Mymind to me a kingdom is:Such perfect joy therein I findThat it excels all other blissThat God or nature hath assigned.Though much I want, that most would have,Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
Mymind to me a kingdom is:
No princely port, nor wealthy store,No force to win a victory,No wily wit to salve a sore,No shape to win a loving eye;To none of these I yield as thrall!For why? my mind despise them all.
I see that plenty surfeits oft,And hasty climbers soonest fall;I see that such as are aloft,Mishap doth threaten most of all.These get with toil, and keep with fear:Such cares my mind can never bear.
I press to bear no haughty sway,I wish no more than may suffice,I do no more, than well I may;Look, what I want, my mind supplies.Lo, thus I triumph like a king,My mind content with any thing.
I laugh not at another’s loss,Nor grudge not at another’s gain.No worldly waves my mind can toss,I brook that is another’s bane;I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend,I loathe not life nor dread mine end.
My wealth is health and perfect ease;And conscience clear my chief defence;I never seek by bribes to please,Nor by desert to give offence,Thus do I live, thus will I die:Would all did so as well as I!
FromJohn Mundy’sSongs and Psalms, 1594.
Myprime of youth is but a frost of cares!My feast of joy is but a dish of pain!My crop of corn is but a field of tares!And all my good is but vain hope of gain!My life is fled, and yet I saw no sun!And now I live, and now my life is done!The Spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung!The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green!My youth is gone, and yet I am but young!I saw the World and yet I was not seen!My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun!And now I live, and now my life is done.
Myprime of youth is but a frost of cares!My feast of joy is but a dish of pain!My crop of corn is but a field of tares!And all my good is but vain hope of gain!My life is fled, and yet I saw no sun!And now I live, and now my life is done!
Myprime of youth is but a frost of cares!
The Spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung!The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green!My youth is gone, and yet I am but young!I saw the World and yet I was not seen!My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun!And now I live, and now my life is done.
FromCampion and Rosseter’sBook of Airs, 1601.
Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.Mysweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,And though the sager sort our deeds reproveLet us not weigh them. Heaven’s great lamps do diveInto their west, and straight again revive;But, soon as once is set our little light,Then must we sleep one ever-during night.If all would lead their lives in love like me,Then bloody swords and armour should not be;No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love:But fools do live and waste their little light,And seek with pain their ever-during night.When timely death my life and fortunes ends,Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends;But let all lovers, rich in triumph, comeAnd with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb:And, Lesbia, close up thou my little lightAnd crown with love my ever-during night.
Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.Mysweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,And though the sager sort our deeds reproveLet us not weigh them. Heaven’s great lamps do diveInto their west, and straight again revive;But, soon as once is set our little light,Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.
Mysweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
If all would lead their lives in love like me,Then bloody swords and armour should not be;No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love:But fools do live and waste their little light,And seek with pain their ever-during night.
When timely death my life and fortunes ends,Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends;But let all lovers, rich in triumph, comeAnd with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb:And, Lesbia, close up thou my little lightAnd crown with love my ever-during night.
FromJohn Dowland’sFirst Book of Songs or Airs, 1597.