Chapter 5

MyThoughts are winged with Hopes, my Hopes with Love:Mount Love unto the moon in clearest night,And say, as she doth in the heavens move,In earth so wanes and waxeth my delight:And whisper this, but softly, in her ears,“Hope oft doth hang the head and Trust shed tears.”And you, my Thoughts, that some mistrust do carry,If for mistrust my mistress do you blame,Say, though you alter, yet you do not vary,As she doth change and yet remain the same;Distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect,And Love is sweetest seasoned with Suspect.If she for this with clouds do mask her eyesAnd make the heavens dark with her disdain,With windy sighs disperse them in the skiesOr with thy tears dissolve them into rain.Thoughts, Hopes, and Love, return to me no moreTill Cynthia shine as she hath done before.

MyThoughts are winged with Hopes, my Hopes with Love:

And you, my Thoughts, that some mistrust do carry,If for mistrust my mistress do you blame,Say, though you alter, yet you do not vary,As she doth change and yet remain the same;Distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect,And Love is sweetest seasoned with Suspect.

If she for this with clouds do mask her eyesAnd make the heavens dark with her disdain,With windy sighs disperse them in the skiesOr with thy tears dissolve them into rain.Thoughts, Hopes, and Love, return to me no moreTill Cynthia shine as she hath done before.

FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs(circ. 1613).

Neverlove unless you canBear with all the faults of man:Men sometimes will jealous beThough but little cause they see;And hang the head as discontent,And speak what straight they will repent.Men that but one saint adoreMake a show of love to more;Beauty must be scorned in none,Though but truly served in one:For what is courtship but disguise?True hearts may have dissembling eyes.Men, when their affairs require,Must awhile themselves retire;Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,And not ever sit and talk:If these and such-like you can bear,Then like, and love, and never fear!

Neverlove unless you canBear with all the faults of man:Men sometimes will jealous beThough but little cause they see;And hang the head as discontent,And speak what straight they will repent.

Neverlove unless you can

Men that but one saint adoreMake a show of love to more;Beauty must be scorned in none,Though but truly served in one:For what is courtship but disguise?True hearts may have dissembling eyes.

Men, when their affairs require,Must awhile themselves retire;Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,And not ever sit and talk:If these and such-like you can bear,Then like, and love, and never fear!

FromJohn Farmer’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1599. (Verses by Samuel Daniel.)

Noweach creature joys the other,Passing happy days and hours:One bird reports unto anotherBy the fall of silver showers;Whilst the Earth, our common Mother,Hath her bosom decked with flowers.

Noweach creature joys the other,

FromThomas Weelkes’Madrigals, 1597.

Nowevery tree renews his summer’s green,Why is your heart in winter’s garments clad?Your beauty says my love is summer’s queen,But your cold love like winter makes me sad:Then either spring with buds of love againOr else congeal my thoughts with your disdain.

Nowevery tree renews his summer’s green,

FromPammelia, 1609.

NowGod be with old Simeon,For he made cans for many-a-one,And a good old man was he;And Jinkin was his journeyman,And he could tipple of every can,And thus he said to me:“To whom drink you?”“Sir knave, to you.”Then hey-ho, jolly Jinkin!I spie a knave in drinking.

NowGod be with old Simeon,

FromRobert Jones’Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs(1608).

Nowhave I learn’d with much ado at lastBy true disdain to kill desire;This was the mark at which I shot so fast,Unto this height I did aspire:Proud Love, now do thy worst and spare not,For thee and all thy shafts I care not.What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind,What life to quicken dead desire?I count thy words and oaths as light as wind,I feel no heat in all thy fire:Go, change thy bow and get a stronger,Go, break thy shafts and buy thee longer.In vain thou bait’st thy hook with beauty’s blaze,In vain thy wanton eyes allure;These are but toys for them that love to gaze,I know what harm thy looks procure:Some strange conceit must be devised,Or thou and all thy skill despised.

Nowhave I learn’d with much ado at last

What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind,What life to quicken dead desire?I count thy words and oaths as light as wind,I feel no heat in all thy fire:Go, change thy bow and get a stronger,Go, break thy shafts and buy thee longer.

In vain thou bait’st thy hook with beauty’s blaze,In vain thy wanton eyes allure;These are but toys for them that love to gaze,I know what harm thy looks procure:Some strange conceit must be devised,Or thou and all thy skill despised.

FromThomas Ford’sMusic of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

NowI see thy looks were feignèdQuickly lost, and quickly gainèd;Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers,Heart inconstant, light as feathers,Tongue untrusty, subtle sighted,Wanton will with change delighted.Siren, pleasant foe to reason,Cupid plague thee for thy treason!Of thine eye I made my mirror,From thy beauty came my error,All thy words I counted witty,All thy sighs I deemèd pity,Thy false tears, that me aggrievèdFirst of all my trust deceivèd.Siren, pleasant foe to reason,Cupid plague thee for thy treason!Feigned acceptance when I askèd,Lovely words with cunning maskèd,Holy vows, but heart unholy;Wretched man, my trust was folly;Lily white, and pretty winking,Solemn vows but sorry thinking.Siren, pleasant foe to reason,Cupid plague thee for thy treason!Now I see, O seemly cruel,Others warm them at my fuel,Wit shall guide me in this duranceSince in love is no assurance:Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure,Beauty is a fading treasure.Siren, pleasant foe to reason,Cupid, plague thee for thy treason!Prime youth lasts not, age will followAnd make white those tresses yellow;Wrinkled face, for looks delightful,Shall acquaint the dame despiteful.And when time shall date thy glory,Then too late thou wilt be sorry.Siren, pleasant foe to reason,Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

NowI see thy looks were feignèd

Of thine eye I made my mirror,From thy beauty came my error,All thy words I counted witty,All thy sighs I deemèd pity,Thy false tears, that me aggrievèdFirst of all my trust deceivèd.Siren, pleasant foe to reason,Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Feigned acceptance when I askèd,Lovely words with cunning maskèd,Holy vows, but heart unholy;Wretched man, my trust was folly;Lily white, and pretty winking,Solemn vows but sorry thinking.Siren, pleasant foe to reason,Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Now I see, O seemly cruel,Others warm them at my fuel,Wit shall guide me in this duranceSince in love is no assurance:Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure,Beauty is a fading treasure.Siren, pleasant foe to reason,Cupid, plague thee for thy treason!

Prime youth lasts not, age will followAnd make white those tresses yellow;Wrinkled face, for looks delightful,Shall acquaint the dame despiteful.And when time shall date thy glory,Then too late thou wilt be sorry.Siren, pleasant foe to reason,Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

FromThomas Weelkes’Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

Nowis my Chloris fresh as May,Clad all in green and flowers gay.Fa la la!O might I think August were nearThat harvest joy might soon appear.Fa la la!But she keeps May throughout the year,And August never comes the near.Fa la la!Yet will I hope, though she be May,August will come another day.Fa la la!

Nowis my Chloris fresh as May,

FromThomas Morley’sFirst Book of Ballets, 1595.

Nowis the month of maying,When merry lads are playingEach with his bonny lassUpon the greeny grass.Fa la la!The spring clad all in gladnessDoth laugh at winter’s sadness,And to the bagpipe’s soundThe nymphs tread out their ground.Fa la la!Fie then, why sit we musing,Youth’s sweet delight refusing?Say, dainty nymphs, and speak,Shall we play barley-break.Fa la la!

Nowis the month of maying,When merry lads are playingEach with his bonny lassUpon the greeny grass.Fa la la!

Nowis the month of maying,

The spring clad all in gladnessDoth laugh at winter’s sadness,And to the bagpipe’s soundThe nymphs tread out their ground.Fa la la!

Fie then, why sit we musing,Youth’s sweet delight refusing?Say, dainty nymphs, and speak,Shall we play barley-break.Fa la la!

FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs(circ. 1613).

Nowlet her change! and spare not!Since she proves strange, I care not!Feigned love charmed so my delight,That still I doted on her sight.But she is gone! new joys embracing,And my distress disgracing.When did I err in blindness?Or vex her with unkindness?If my cares served her alone,Why is she thus untimely gone?True love abides to th’ hour of dying:False love is ever flying.False! then farewell for ever!Once false proves faithful never!He that boasts now of thy love,Shall soon, my present fortunes proveWere he as fair as bright Adonis:Faith is not had where none is!

Nowlet her change! and spare not!

When did I err in blindness?Or vex her with unkindness?If my cares served her alone,Why is she thus untimely gone?True love abides to th’ hour of dying:False love is ever flying.

False! then farewell for ever!Once false proves faithful never!He that boasts now of thy love,Shall soon, my present fortunes proveWere he as fair as bright Adonis:Faith is not had where none is!

FromThomas Weelkes’Madrigals of Five and Six Parts, 1600

Nowlet us make a merry greetingAnd thank God Cupid for our meeting:My heart is full of joy and pleasureSince thou art here, mine only treasure.Now will we dance and sport and playAnd sing a merry roundelay.

Nowlet us make a merry greeting

FromRobert Jones’sSecond Book of Airs, 1601. (Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)

Nowwhat is love, I pray thee tell?It is that fountain and that wellWhere pleasures and repentance dwell;It is perhaps that sancing-bell[11]That tolls all in to heaven or hell:And this is love, as I hear tell.Now what is love, I pray thee say?It is a work on holyday,It is December matched with May,When lusty bloods in fresh arrayHear ten months after of their play:And this is love, as I hear say.Now what is love, I pray thee feign?It is a sunshine mixed with rain,It is a gentle pleasing pain,A flower that dies and springs again,It is a No that would full fain:And this is love as I hear sain.Yet what is love, I pray thee say?It is a pretty shady wayAs well found out by night as day,It is a thing will soon decay;Then take the vantage whilst you may:And this is love, as I hear say.Now what is love, I pray thee show?A thing that creeps, it cannot go,A prize that passeth to and fro,A thing for one, a thing for mo,And he that proves shall find it so:And this is love, as I well know.[11]Saint’s-bell; the little bell that called to prayers.

Nowwhat is love, I pray thee tell?

Now what is love, I pray thee say?It is a work on holyday,It is December matched with May,When lusty bloods in fresh arrayHear ten months after of their play:And this is love, as I hear say.

Now what is love, I pray thee feign?It is a sunshine mixed with rain,It is a gentle pleasing pain,A flower that dies and springs again,It is a No that would full fain:And this is love as I hear sain.

Yet what is love, I pray thee say?It is a pretty shady wayAs well found out by night as day,It is a thing will soon decay;Then take the vantage whilst you may:And this is love, as I hear say.Now what is love, I pray thee show?A thing that creeps, it cannot go,A prize that passeth to and fro,A thing for one, a thing for mo,And he that proves shall find it so:And this is love, as I well know.

[11]Saint’s-bell; the little bell that called to prayers.

FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs(circ. 1613).

Nowwinter nights enlargeThe number of their hours,And clouds their storms dischargeUpon the airy towers.Let now the chimneys blaze,And cups o’erflow with wine;Let well-tuned words amazeWith harmony divine.Now yellow waxen lightsShall wait on honey love,While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sightsSleep’s leaden spells remove.This time doth well dispenseWith lovers’ long discourse;Much, speech hath some defenceThough beauty no remorse.All do not all things well;Some measures comely tread,Some knotted riddles tell,Some poems smoothly read.The summer hath his joysAnd winter his delights;Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,They shorten tedious nights.

Nowwinter nights enlarge

This time doth well dispenseWith lovers’ long discourse;Much, speech hath some defenceThough beauty no remorse.All do not all things well;Some measures comely tread,Some knotted riddles tell,Some poems smoothly read.The summer hath his joysAnd winter his delights;Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,They shorten tedious nights.

FromJohn Ward’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1613.

Osay, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries,So lovely-ripe, by my rude lips be tasted?Shall I not pluck (sweet, say notnay) those cherries?O let them not with summer’s heat be blasted.Nature, thou know’st, bestow’d them free on thee;Then be thou kind—bestow them free on me.

Osay, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries,

FromJohn Farmer’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

Ostay, sweet love; see here the place of sporting;These gentle flowers smile sweetly to invite us,And chirping birds are hitherwards resorting,Warbling sweet notes only to delight us:Then stay, dear Love, for though thou run from me,Run ne’er so fast, yet I will follow thee.I thought, my love, that I should overtake you;Sweet heart, sit down under this shadowed tree,And I will promise never to forsake you,So you will grant to me a lover’s fee.Whereat she smiled and kindly to me said—I never meant to live and die a maid.

Ostay, sweet love; see here the place of sporting;

I thought, my love, that I should overtake you;Sweet heart, sit down under this shadowed tree,And I will promise never to forsake you,So you will grant to me a lover’s fee.Whereat she smiled and kindly to me said—I never meant to live and die a maid.

FromThomas Morley’sMadrigals, 1594.

O sweet, alas, what say you?Ay me, that face disclosesThe scarlet blush of sweet vermilion roses.And yet, alas, I know notIf such a crimson stainingBe for love or disdaining;But if of love it grow not,Be it disdain conceivèdTo see us of love’s fruits so long bereavèd.

O sweet, alas, what say you?

FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs(circ. 1613).

O sweetdelight, O more than human blissWith her to live that ever loving is!To hear her speak whose words are so well placedThat she by them, as they by her are graced!Those looks to view that feast the viewer’s eye,How blest is he that may so live and die!Such love as this the Golden Times did know,When all did reap and none took care to sow;Such love as this an endless summer makes,And all distaste from frail affection takes.So loved, so blest in my beloved am I:Which till their eyes ache let iron men envy!

O sweetdelight, O more than human bliss

Such love as this the Golden Times did know,When all did reap and none took care to sow;Such love as this an endless summer makes,And all distaste from frail affection takes.So loved, so blest in my beloved am I:Which till their eyes ache let iron men envy!

FromRobert Jones’Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs(1608).

Ofthave I mused the cause to findWhy Love in lady’s eyes should dwell;I thought, because himself was blind,He look’d that they should guide him well:And sure his hope but seldom fails,For Love by ladies’ eyes prevails.But time at last hath taught me wit,Although I bought my wit full dear;For by her eyes my heart is hit,Deep is the wound though none appear:Their glancing beams as darts he throws,And sure he hath no shafts but those.I mused to see their eyes so bright,And little thought they had been fire;I gazed upon them with delight,But that delight hath bred desire:What better place can Love desireThan that where grow both shafts and fire?

Ofthave I mused the cause to find

But time at last hath taught me wit,Although I bought my wit full dear;For by her eyes my heart is hit,Deep is the wound though none appear:Their glancing beams as darts he throws,And sure he hath no shafts but those.

I mused to see their eyes so bright,And little thought they had been fire;I gazed upon them with delight,But that delight hath bred desire:What better place can Love desireThan that where grow both shafts and fire?

FromJohn Attye’sFirst Book of Airs, 1622.

Ona time the amorous SilvySaid to her shepherd, ‘Sweet, how do you?Kiss me this once, and then God be wi’ you,My sweetest dear!Kiss me this once and then God be wi’ you,For now the morning draweth near.’With that, her fairest bosom showing,Opening her lips, rich perfumes blowing,She said, ‘Now kiss me and be going,My sweetest dear!Kiss me this once and then be going,For now the morning draweth near.’With that the shepherd waked from sleeping,And, spying where the day was peeping,He said, ‘Now take my soul in keeping,My sweetest dear!Kiss me, and take my soul in keeping,Since I must go, now day is near.’

Ona time the amorous Silvy

With that, her fairest bosom showing,Opening her lips, rich perfumes blowing,She said, ‘Now kiss me and be going,My sweetest dear!Kiss me this once and then be going,For now the morning draweth near.’

With that the shepherd waked from sleeping,And, spying where the day was peeping,He said, ‘Now take my soul in keeping,My sweetest dear!Kiss me, and take my soul in keeping,Since I must go, now day is near.’

FromRobert Jones’First Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.

Oncedid I love and yet I live,Though love and truth be now forgotten;Then did I joy, now do I grieveThat holy vows must now be broken.Hers be the blame that caused it so,Mine be the grief though it be mickle;[12]She shall have shame, I cause to knowWhat ’tis to love a dame so fickle.Love her that list, I am contentFor that chameleon-like she changeth,Yielding such mists as may preventMy sight to view her when she rangeth.Let him not vaunt that gains my loss,For when that he and time hath proved her,She may him bring to Weeping-Cross:I say no more, because I loved her.[12]Old ed., “little”

Oncedid I love and yet I live,Though love and truth be now forgotten;Then did I joy, now do I grieveThat holy vows must now be broken.

Oncedid I love and yet I live,

Hers be the blame that caused it so,Mine be the grief though it be mickle;[12]She shall have shame, I cause to knowWhat ’tis to love a dame so fickle.

Love her that list, I am contentFor that chameleon-like she changeth,Yielding such mists as may preventMy sight to view her when she rangeth.

Let him not vaunt that gains my loss,For when that he and time hath proved her,She may him bring to Weeping-Cross:I say no more, because I loved her.

[12]Old ed., “little”

FromHenry Youll’sCanzonets to Three Voices, 1608.

OnceI thought to die for love,Till I found that women proveTraitors in their smiling:They say men unconstant be,But they themselves Jove change, we see,And all is but beguiling.

OnceI thought to die for love,

FromThomas Weelkes’Madrigals, 1597

Ourcountry-swains in the morris danceThus woo and win their brides,Will for our town the hobby horseAt pleasure frolic rides:I woo with tears and ne’er the near,I die in grief and live in fear.

Ourcountry-swains in the morris dance

FromGiles Farnaby’sCanzonets, 1598.

Piercedid love fair PetronelBecause she sang and dancèd wellAnd gallantly could prank it;He pulled her and he haul’d herAnd oftentimes he call’d herPrimrose pearls prick’d in a blanket.

Piercedid love fair Petronel

FromFrancis Pilkington’sFirst Set of Madrigals and Pastorals, 1613.

Pourforth, mine eyes, the fountains of your tears;Break, heart, and die, for now no hope appears;Hope, upon which before my thoughts were fed,Hath left me quite forlorn and from me fled.Yet, see, she smiles! O see, some hope appears!Hold, heart, and live; mine eyes, cease off your tears.

Pourforth, mine eyes, the fountains of your tears;

FromAirs sung and played at Brougham Castle, 1618, byGeorge MasonandJohn Earsden.

Robinis a lovely lad,No lass a smoother ever had;Tommy hath a look as brightAs is the rosy morning light;Tib is dark and brown of hue,But like her colour firm and true;Jenny hath a lip to kissWherein a spring of nectar is;Simkin well his mirth can placeAnd words to win a woman’s grace;Sib is all in all to me,There is no Queen of Love but she.

Robinis a lovely lad,

FromThomas Ravenscroft’sBrief Discourse, 1614.

The Satyrs’ Dance.Round-a, round-a, keep your ring:To the glorious sun we sing,—Ho, ho!He that wears the flaming rays,And th’ imperial crown of bays,Him with shouts and songs we praise—Ho, ho!That in his bounty he’d vouchsafe to graceThe humble sylvans and their shaggy race.

The Satyrs’ Dance.

Round-a, round-a, keep your ring:To the glorious sun we sing,—Ho, ho!He that wears the flaming rays,And th’ imperial crown of bays,Him with shouts and songs we praise—Ho, ho!That in his bounty he’d vouchsafe to graceThe humble sylvans and their shaggy race.

Round-a, round-a, keep your ring:

FromThomas Morley’sCanzonets, 1593.

See, see, mine own sweet jewel,What I have for my darling:A robin-redbreast and a starling.These I give both in hope to move thee;Yet thou say’st I do not love thee.

See, see, mine own sweet jewel,

FromWilliam Corkine’sAirs, 1610.

Shalla frown or angry eye,Shall a word unfitly placèd,Shall a shadow make me flieAs if I were with tigers chasèd?Love must not be so disgracèd.Shall I woo her in despight?Shall I turn her from her flying?Shall I tempt her with delight?Shall I laugh at her denying?No: beware of lovers’ crying.Shall I then with patient mindStill attend her wayward pleasure?Time will make her prove more kind,Let her coyness then take leisure:She is worthy such a treasure.

Shalla frown or angry eye,Shall a word unfitly placèd,Shall a shadow make me flieAs if I were with tigers chasèd?Love must not be so disgracèd.

Shalla frown or angry eye,

Shall I woo her in despight?Shall I turn her from her flying?Shall I tempt her with delight?Shall I laugh at her denying?No: beware of lovers’ crying.

Shall I then with patient mindStill attend her wayward pleasure?Time will make her prove more kind,Let her coyness then take leisure:She is worthy such a treasure.

FromRichard Alison’sAn Hours Recreation in Music, 1606.

ShallI abide this jesting?I weep, and she’s a-feasting!O cruel fancy, that so doth blind meTo love one that doth not mind me!Can I abide this prancing?I weep, and she’s a-dancing!O cruel fancy, so to betray me!Thou goest about to slay me.

ShallI abide this jesting?I weep, and she’s a-feasting!O cruel fancy, that so doth blind meTo love one that doth not mind me!

ShallI abide this jesting?

Can I abide this prancing?I weep, and she’s a-dancing!O cruel fancy, so to betray me!Thou goest about to slay me.

FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs(circ. 1613).

ShallI come, sweet Love, to theeWhen the evening beams are set?Shall I not excluded be,Will you find no feignèd let?Let me not, for pity, moreTell the long hours at your door.Who can tell what thief or foe,In the covert of the night,For his prey will work my woe,Or through wicked foul despite?So may I die unredrestEre my long love be possest.But to let such dangers pass,Which a lover’s thoughts disdain,’Tis enough in such a placeTo attend love’s joys in vain:Do not mock me in thy bed,While these cold nights freeze me dead.

ShallI come, sweet Love, to theeWhen the evening beams are set?Shall I not excluded be,Will you find no feignèd let?Let me not, for pity, moreTell the long hours at your door.

ShallI come, sweet Love, to thee

Who can tell what thief or foe,In the covert of the night,For his prey will work my woe,Or through wicked foul despite?So may I die unredrestEre my long love be possest.

But to let such dangers pass,Which a lover’s thoughts disdain,’Tis enough in such a placeTo attend love’s joys in vain:Do not mock me in thy bed,While these cold nights freeze me dead.

FromRobert Jones’Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs(1608).

ShallI look to ease my grief?No, my sight is lost with eying:Shall I speak and beg relief?No, my voice is hoarse with crying:What remains but only dying?Love and I of late did part,But the boy, my peace envying,Like a Parthian threw his dartBackward, and did wound me flying:What remains but only dying?She whom then I lookèd on,My remembrance beautifying,Stays with me though I am gone,Gone and at her mercy lying:What remains but only dying?Shall I try her thoughts and write?No I have no means of trying:If I should, yet at first sightShe would answer with denying:What remains but only dying?Thus my vital breath doth waste,And, my blood with sorrow drying,Sighs and tears make life to lastFor a while, their place supplying:What remains but only dying?

ShallI look to ease my grief?No, my sight is lost with eying:Shall I speak and beg relief?No, my voice is hoarse with crying:What remains but only dying?

ShallI look to ease my grief?

Love and I of late did part,But the boy, my peace envying,Like a Parthian threw his dartBackward, and did wound me flying:What remains but only dying?

She whom then I lookèd on,My remembrance beautifying,Stays with me though I am gone,Gone and at her mercy lying:What remains but only dying?

Shall I try her thoughts and write?No I have no means of trying:If I should, yet at first sightShe would answer with denying:What remains but only dying?

Thus my vital breath doth waste,And, my blood with sorrow drying,Sighs and tears make life to lastFor a while, their place supplying:What remains but only dying?

FromRobert Jones’First Book of Airs, 1601.

Shewhose matchless beauty stainethWhat best judgment fair’st maintaineth,She, O she, my love disdaineth.Can a creature, so excelling,Harbour scorn in beauty’s dwelling,All kind pity thence expelling?Pity beauty much commendethAnd th’ embracer oft befriendethWhen all eye-contentment endeth.Time proves beauty transitory;Scorn, the stain of beauty’s glory,In time makes the scorner sorry.None adores the sun declining;Love all love falls to resigningWhen the sun of love leaves shining.So, when flower of beauty fails thee,And age, stealing on, assails thee,Then mark what this scorn avails thee.Then those hearts, which now complainingFeel the wounds of thy disdaining,Shall contemn thy beauty waning.Yea, thine own heart, now dear-prizèd,Shall with spite and grief surprisèdBurst to find itself despisèd.When like harms have them requitedWho in others’ harms delighted,Pleasingly the wrong’d are righted.Such revenge my wrongs attending,Hope still lives on time depending,By thy plagues thy torrents ending.

Shewhose matchless beauty stainethWhat best judgment fair’st maintaineth,She, O she, my love disdaineth.

Shewhose matchless beauty staineth

Can a creature, so excelling,Harbour scorn in beauty’s dwelling,All kind pity thence expelling?

Pity beauty much commendethAnd th’ embracer oft befriendethWhen all eye-contentment endeth.

Time proves beauty transitory;Scorn, the stain of beauty’s glory,In time makes the scorner sorry.

None adores the sun declining;Love all love falls to resigningWhen the sun of love leaves shining.

So, when flower of beauty fails thee,And age, stealing on, assails thee,Then mark what this scorn avails thee.

Then those hearts, which now complainingFeel the wounds of thy disdaining,Shall contemn thy beauty waning.

Yea, thine own heart, now dear-prizèd,Shall with spite and grief surprisèdBurst to find itself despisèd.

When like harms have them requitedWho in others’ harms delighted,Pleasingly the wrong’d are righted.

Such revenge my wrongs attending,Hope still lives on time depending,By thy plagues thy torrents ending.

FromThomas Morley’sFirst Book of Ballets to Five Voices, 1595.

Shoot, false Love! I care not;Spend thy shafts and spare not!Fa la la!I fear not, I, thy might,And less I weigh thy spite;All naked I unarm me,—If thou canst, now shoot and harm me!So lightly I esteem theeAs now a child I dream thee.Fa la la la!Long thy bow did fear[13]me,While thy pomp did blear me;Fa la la!But now I do perceiveThy art is to deceive;And every simple loverAll thy falsehood can discover.Then weep, Love! and be sorry,For thou hast lost thy glory.Fa la la la![13]Frighten.

Shoot, false Love! I care not;

Long thy bow did fear[13]me,While thy pomp did blear me;Fa la la!But now I do perceiveThy art is to deceive;And every simple loverAll thy falsehood can discover.Then weep, Love! and be sorry,For thou hast lost thy glory.Fa la la la!

[13]Frighten.

FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs, (circ. 1613).

Sillyboy! ’tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly;Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly.Shortly wilt thou mourn when all thy pleasures be bereavèd,Little knows he how to love that never was deceivèd.This is thy first maiden-flame that triumphs yet unstainèd,All is artless now you speak, not one word is feignèd;All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessèd,But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath his Cressid.Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected,And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected;Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holyAnd with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly.Yet be just and constant still, Love may beget a wonder,Not unlike a summer’s frost or winter’s fatal thunder:He that holds his sweetheart true unto his day of dying,Lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the envying.

Sillyboy! ’tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly;

This is thy first maiden-flame that triumphs yet unstainèd,All is artless now you speak, not one word is feignèd;All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessèd,But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath his Cressid.

Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected,And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected;Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holyAnd with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly.

Yet be just and constant still, Love may beget a wonder,Not unlike a summer’s frost or winter’s fatal thunder:He that holds his sweetheart true unto his day of dying,Lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the envying.

FromGiles Farnaby’sCanzonets, 1598.

Simkinsaid that Sis was fair,And that he meant to love her;He set her on his ambling mare,—All this he did to prove her.When they came home Sis floted creamAnd poured it through a strainer,But sware that Simkin should have noneBecause he did disdain her.

Simkinsaid that Sis was fair,And that he meant to love her;He set her on his ambling mare,—All this he did to prove her.

Simkinsaid that Sis was fair,

When they came home Sis floted creamAnd poured it through a strainer,But sware that Simkin should have noneBecause he did disdain her.

FromThomas Ford’sMusic Of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

Sincefirst I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye,If now I be disdained I wish my heart had never known ye.What? I that loved and you that liked shall we begin to wrangle?No, no no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle.If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive meOr if my hands had strayed but a touch, then justly might you leave me.I asked you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me?No no no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me.The sun whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder,Where beauty moves, and wit delights and signs of kindness bind meThere, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me.

Sincefirst I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye,

If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive meOr if my hands had strayed but a touch, then justly might you leave me.I asked you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me?No no no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me.

The sun whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder,Where beauty moves, and wit delights and signs of kindness bind meThere, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me.

FromThomas Morley’sFirst Book of Ballets, 1595.

Singwe and chant itWhile love doth grant it.Fa la la!Not long youth lasteth,And old age hasteth.Fa la la!Now is best leisureTo take our pleasure.Fa la la!All things invite usNow to delight us.Fa la la!Hence care be packing,No mirth be lacking.Fa la la!Let spare no treasureTo live in pleasure.Fa la la!

Singwe and chant itWhile love doth grant it.Fa la la!

Singwe and chant it

Not long youth lasteth,And old age hasteth.Fa la la!

Now is best leisureTo take our pleasure.Fa la la!

All things invite usNow to delight us.Fa la la!

Hence care be packing,No mirth be lacking.Fa la la!

Let spare no treasureTo live in pleasure.Fa la la!

FromThomas Bateson’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1604.

Sister, awake! close not your eyes!The day her light discloses,And the bright morning doth ariseOut of her bed of roses.See, the clear sun, the world’s bright eye,In at our window peeping:Lo! how he blusheth to espyUs idle wenches sleeping.Therefore, awake! make haste, I say,And let us, without staying,All in our gowns of green so gayInto the park a-maying.

Sister, awake! close not your eyes!The day her light discloses,And the bright morning doth ariseOut of her bed of roses.

Sister, awake! close not your eyes!

See, the clear sun, the world’s bright eye,In at our window peeping:Lo! how he blusheth to espyUs idle wenches sleeping.

Therefore, awake! make haste, I say,And let us, without staying,All in our gowns of green so gayInto the park a-maying.

FromThomas Campion’sThird Book of Airs(circ. 1613).

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