Chapter 6

Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?It shall suffice me here to sit and seeThose lips shut up that never kindly spoke:What sight can more content a lover’s mindThan beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?My words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps,Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:Dreams often more than waking passions move.Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:That she in peace may wake and pity me.

Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!

My words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps,Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:Dreams often more than waking passions move.Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:That she in peace may wake and pity me.

FromJohn Wilbye’sSecond Set of Madrigals, 1609.

Solight is love, in matchless beauty shining,When he revisits Cypris’ hallowed bowers,Two feeble doves, harness’d in silken twining,Can draw his chariot midst the Paphian flowers,Lightness in love! how ill it fitteth!So heavy on my heart he sitteth.

Solight is love, in matchless beauty shining,

FromWilliam Corkine’sAirs, 1610.

Somecan flatter, some can feign,Simple truth shall plead for me;Let not beauty truth disdain,Truth is even as fair as she.But since pairs must equal prove,Let my strength her youth oppose,Love her beauty, faith her love;On even terms so may we close.Cork or lead in equal weightBoth one just proportion yield,So may breadth be peis’d[14]with height,Steepest mount with plainest field.Virtues have not all one kind,Yet all virtues merit be,Divers virtues are combined;Differing so, deserts agree.Let then love and beauty meet,Making one divine concentConstant as the sounds and sweet,That enchant the firmament.[14]Balanced.

Somecan flatter, some can feign,Simple truth shall plead for me;Let not beauty truth disdain,Truth is even as fair as she.

Somecan flatter, some can feign,

But since pairs must equal prove,Let my strength her youth oppose,Love her beauty, faith her love;On even terms so may we close.

Cork or lead in equal weightBoth one just proportion yield,So may breadth be peis’d[14]with height,Steepest mount with plainest field.

Virtues have not all one kind,Yet all virtues merit be,Divers virtues are combined;Differing so, deserts agree.

Let then love and beauty meet,Making one divine concentConstant as the sounds and sweet,That enchant the firmament.

[14]Balanced.

FromCampionandRosseter’sBook of Airs, 1601.

Sweet, come again!Your happy sight, so much desiredSince you from hence are now retired,I seek in vain:Still I must mourn,And pine in longing pain,Till you, my life’s delight, againVouchsafe your wish’d return.If true desire,Or faithful vow of endless love,Thy heart inflamed may kindly moveWith equal fire;O then my joys,So long distraught, shall rest,Reposèd soft in thy chaste breast,Exempt from all annoys.You had the powerMy wand’ring thoughts first to restrain,You first did hear my love speak plain;A child before,Now it is grownConfirmed, do you it[15]keep!And let ’t safe in your bosom sleep,There ever made your own!And till we meet,Teach absence inward art to find,Both to disturb and please the mind!Such thoughts are sweet:And such remainIn hearts whose flames are true;Then such will I retain, till youTo me return again.[15]Old ed. “do you keep it.”

Sweet, come again!

If true desire,Or faithful vow of endless love,Thy heart inflamed may kindly moveWith equal fire;O then my joys,So long distraught, shall rest,Reposèd soft in thy chaste breast,Exempt from all annoys.

You had the powerMy wand’ring thoughts first to restrain,You first did hear my love speak plain;A child before,Now it is grownConfirmed, do you it[15]keep!And let ’t safe in your bosom sleep,There ever made your own!

And till we meet,Teach absence inward art to find,Both to disturb and please the mind!Such thoughts are sweet:And such remainIn hearts whose flames are true;Then such will I retain, till youTo me return again.

[15]Old ed. “do you keep it.”

FromWilliam Corkine’sAirs, 1610.

SweetCupid, ripen her desire,Thy joyful harvest may begin;If age approach a little nigher,’Twill be too late to get it in.Cold Winter storms lay standing Corn,Which once too ripe will never rise,And lovers wish themselves unborn,When all their joys lie in their eyes.Then, sweet, let us embrace and kiss:Shall beauty shale[16]upon the ground?If age bereave us of this bliss,Then will no more such sport be found.[16]Shell, husk (as peas).

SweetCupid, ripen her desire,Thy joyful harvest may begin;If age approach a little nigher,’Twill be too late to get it in.

SweetCupid, ripen her desire,

Cold Winter storms lay standing Corn,Which once too ripe will never rise,And lovers wish themselves unborn,When all their joys lie in their eyes.

Then, sweet, let us embrace and kiss:Shall beauty shale[16]upon the ground?If age bereave us of this bliss,Then will no more such sport be found.

[16]Shell, husk (as peas).

FromThomas Weelkes’Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

Sweetheart, arise! why do you sleepWhen lovers wanton sports do keep?The sun doth shine, the birds do sing,And May delight and joy doth bring:Then join we hands and dance till night,’Tis pity love should want his right.

Sweetheart, arise! why do you sleep

FromRobert Jones’Musical Dream, 1609.

SweetKateOf lateRan away and left me plaining.Abide!(I cried)Or I die with thy disdaining.Te hee, quoth she;Make no fool of me;Men, I know, have oaths at pleasure,But, their hopes attainèd,They bewray they feignèd,And their oaths are kept at leisure.Unkind,I findThy delight is in tormenting:Abide!(I cried)Or I die with thy consenting.Te hee, quoth she,Make no fool of me;Men, I know, have oaths at pleasure,But, their hopes attainèd,They bewray they feignèd,And their oaths are kept at leisure.Her words,Like swords,Cut my sorry heart in sunder,Her floutsWith doubtsKept my heart-affections under.Te hee, quoth she,What a fool is heStands in awe of once denying!Cause I had enoughTo become more rough,So I did—O happy trying!

SweetKate

Unkind,I findThy delight is in tormenting:Abide!(I cried)Or I die with thy consenting.Te hee, quoth she,Make no fool of me;Men, I know, have oaths at pleasure,But, their hopes attainèd,They bewray they feignèd,And their oaths are kept at leisure.

Her words,Like swords,Cut my sorry heart in sunder,Her floutsWith doubtsKept my heart-affections under.Te hee, quoth she,What a fool is heStands in awe of once denying!Cause I had enoughTo become more rough,So I did—O happy trying!

FromJohn Wilbye’sMadrigals, 1598.

SweetLove, if thou wilt gain a monarch’s glory,Subdue her heart who makes me glad and sorry;Out of thy golden quiver,Take thou thy strongest arrowThat will through bone and marrow,And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:But come behind, for, if she look upon thee,Alas! poor Love, then thou art woe-begone thee.

SweetLove, if thou wilt gain a monarch’s glory,

FromThomas Weelkes’Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

SweetLove, I will no more abuse thee,Nor with my voice accuse thee;But tune my notes unto thy praiseAnd tell the world Love ne’er decays.Sweet Love doth concord ever cherish:What wanteth concord soon must perish.

SweetLove, I will no more abuse thee,

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

SweetLove, my only treasure,For service long unfeignèdWherein I nought have gainèd,Vouchsafe this little pleasure,To tell me in what partMy Lady keeps her heart.If in her hair so slender,Like golden nets entwinèdWhich fire and art have finèd,Her thrall my heart I renderFor ever to abideWith locks so dainty tied.If in her eyes she bind it,Wherein that fire was framèdBy which it is inflamèd,I dare not look to find it:I only wish it sightTo see that pleasant light.But if her breast have deignèdWith kindness to receive it,I am content to leave itThough death thereby were gainèd:Then, Lady, take your ownThat lives by you alone.

SweetLove, my only treasure,For service long unfeignèdWherein I nought have gainèd,Vouchsafe this little pleasure,To tell me in what partMy Lady keeps her heart.

SweetLove, my only treasure,

If in her hair so slender,Like golden nets entwinèdWhich fire and art have finèd,Her thrall my heart I renderFor ever to abideWith locks so dainty tied.

If in her eyes she bind it,Wherein that fire was framèdBy which it is inflamèd,I dare not look to find it:I only wish it sightTo see that pleasant light.

But if her breast have deignèdWith kindness to receive it,I am content to leave itThough death thereby were gainèd:Then, Lady, take your ownThat lives by you alone.

FromJohn Dowland’sPilgrim’s Solace, 1612. (The first stanza is found in a poem of Donne.)

Sweet, stay awhile; why will you rise?The light you see comes from your eyes;The day breaks not, it is my heart,To think that you and I must part.O stay! or else my joys must dieAnd perish in their infancy.Dear, let me die in this fair breast,Far sweeter than the phœnix nest.Love raise Desire by his sweet charmsWithin this circle of thine arms!And let thy blissful kisses cherishMine infant joys that else must perish.

Sweet, stay awhile; why will you rise?

Dear, let me die in this fair breast,Far sweeter than the phœnix nest.Love raise Desire by his sweet charmsWithin this circle of thine arms!And let thy blissful kisses cherishMine infant joys that else must perish.

FromThomas Vautor’sSongs of divers Airs and Natures, 1619.

Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.SweetSuffolk owl, so trimly dightWith feathers like a lady bright,Thou sing’st alone, sitting by night,Te whit, te whoo!Thy note, that forth so freely rolls,With shrill command the mouse controls,And sings a dirge for dying souls,Te whit, te whoo!

Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.

SweetSuffolk owl, so trimly dightWith feathers like a lady bright,Thou sing’st alone, sitting by night,Te whit, te whoo!Thy note, that forth so freely rolls,With shrill command the mouse controls,And sings a dirge for dying souls,Te whit, te whoo!

SweetSuffolk owl, so trimly dight

FromThomas Weelkes’Madrigals of Five and Six Parts, 1600.

Takehere my heart, I give it thee for ever!No better pledge can love to love deliver.Fear not, my dear, it will not fly away,For hope and love command my heart to stay.But if thou doubt, desire will make it range:Love but my heart, my heart will never change.

Takehere my heart, I give it thee for ever!

FromFarmer’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

Taketime while time doth last,Mark how fair fadeth fast;Beware if envy reign,Take heed of proud disdain;Hold fast now in thy youth,Regard thy vowèd truth,Lest, when thou waxeth old,Friends fail and love grow cold.

Taketime while time doth last,

FromDeuteromelia, 1609.

TheFly she sat in shamble-rowAnd shambled with her heels I trow;And then came in Sir CranionWith legs so long and many a one;And said “Jove speed, dame Fly, dame Fly”:“Marry, you be welcome, Sir,” quoth she:“The master Humble Bee hath sent me to theeTo wit and if you will his true love be.”But she said “Nay, that may not be,For I must have the Butterfly,For and a greater lord there may not be.”But at the last consent did she.And there was bid to this weddingAll Flies in the field and Worms creeping.The Snail she came crawling all over the plain,With all her jolly trinkets in her train.Ten Bees there came, all clad in gold,And all the rest did them behold;But the Thornbud refused this sight to see,And to a cow-plat away flies she.But where now shall this wedding be?—For and hey-nonny-no in an old ivy-tree.And where now shall we bake our bread?—For and hey-nonny-no in an old horse-head.And where now shall we brew our ale?—But even within one walnut-shale.And also where shall we our dinner make?—But even upon a galled horse-back:For there we shall have good companyWith humbling and bumbling and much melody.When ended was this wedding-day,The Bee he took his Fly away,And laid her down upon the marshBetween one marigold and the long grass.And there they begot good master gnatAnd made him the heir of all,—that’s flat.

TheFly she sat in shamble-rowAnd shambled with her heels I trow;

TheFly she sat in shamble-row

And then came in Sir CranionWith legs so long and many a one;

And said “Jove speed, dame Fly, dame Fly”:“Marry, you be welcome, Sir,” quoth she:

“The master Humble Bee hath sent me to theeTo wit and if you will his true love be.”

But she said “Nay, that may not be,For I must have the Butterfly,

For and a greater lord there may not be.”But at the last consent did she.

And there was bid to this weddingAll Flies in the field and Worms creeping.

The Snail she came crawling all over the plain,With all her jolly trinkets in her train.

Ten Bees there came, all clad in gold,And all the rest did them behold;

But the Thornbud refused this sight to see,And to a cow-plat away flies she.

But where now shall this wedding be?—For and hey-nonny-no in an old ivy-tree.

And where now shall we bake our bread?—For and hey-nonny-no in an old horse-head.

And where now shall we brew our ale?—But even within one walnut-shale.

And also where shall we our dinner make?—But even upon a galled horse-back:

For there we shall have good companyWith humbling and bumbling and much melody.

When ended was this wedding-day,The Bee he took his Fly away,

And laid her down upon the marshBetween one marigold and the long grass.

And there they begot good master gnatAnd made him the heir of all,—that’s flat.

FromThomas Weelkes’Airs or Fantastic Spirits, 1608.

Audivere, Lyce.—Horace.Thegods have heard my vows,Fond Lyce, whose fair browsWont scorn with such disdainMy love, my tears, my pain.Fa la!But now those spring-tide rosesAre turn’d to winter-posies,To rue and thyme and sage,Fitting thy shrivell’d age.Fa la!Now, youths, with hot desireSee, see, that flameless fire,Which erst your hearts so burned,Quick into ashes turned.Fa la!

Audivere, Lyce.—Horace.

Thegods have heard my vows,Fond Lyce, whose fair browsWont scorn with such disdainMy love, my tears, my pain.Fa la!

Thegods have heard my vows,

But now those spring-tide rosesAre turn’d to winter-posies,To rue and thyme and sage,Fitting thy shrivell’d age.Fa la!

Now, youths, with hot desireSee, see, that flameless fire,Which erst your hearts so burned,Quick into ashes turned.Fa la!

FromPammelia, 1609

The household-bird with the red stomacher.—Donne.Thelark, linnet and nightingale to sing some say are best;Yet merrily sings little Robin, pretty Robin with the red breast.

The household-bird with the red stomacher.—Donne.

Thelark, linnet and nightingale to sing some say are best;Yet merrily sings little Robin, pretty Robin with the red breast.

Thelark, linnet and nightingale to sing some say are best;

FromRichard Carlton’sMadrigals, 1601.

Thelove of change hath changed the world throughout,And what is counted good but that is strange?New things wax old, old new, all turns about,And all things change except the love of change.Yet find I not that love of change in me,But as I am so will I always be.

Thelove of change hath changed the world throughout,

FromJohn Dowland’sThird and last Book of Songs and Airs, 1603.

Thelowest trees have tops, the ant her gall,The fly her spleen, the little spark his heat;And slender hairs cast shadows, though but small,And bees have stings, although they be not great;Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs;And love is love, in beggars and in kings!Where waters smoothest run, deep are the fords;The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move;The firmest faith is in the fewest words;The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love;True hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak;They hear, and see, and sigh, and then they break!

Thelowest trees have tops, the ant her gall,

Where waters smoothest run, deep are the fords;The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move;The firmest faith is in the fewest words;The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love;True hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak;They hear, and see, and sigh, and then they break!

FromCampionandRosseter’sBook of Airs, 1601.

Theman of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot deludeNor sorrow discontent:That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder’s violence:He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.Thus scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.

Theman of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;

Theman of life upright,

The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot deludeNor sorrow discontent:

That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder’s violence:

He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.

Thus scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.

FromWilliam Byrd’sSongs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

Thegreedy hawk with sudden sight of lureDoth stoop in hope to have her wishèd prey;So many men do stoop to sights unsure,And courteous speech doth keep them at the bay:Let them beware lest friendly looks be likeThe lure whereat the soaring hawk did strike.

Thegreedy hawk with sudden sight of lure

FromWilliam Byrd’sPsalms, Sonnets and Songs, 1588.

Thematch that’s made for just and true respects,With evenness both of years and parentage,Of force must bring forth many good effects.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.For where chaste love and liking sets the plant,And concord waters with a firm good-will,Of no good thing there can be any want.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.Sound is the knot that Chastity hath tied,Sweet is the music Unity doth make,Sure is the store that Plenty doth provide.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.Where Chasteness fails there Concord will decay,Where Concord fleets there Plenty will decease,Where Plenty wants there Love will wear away.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.I, Chastity, restrain all strange desires;I, Concord, keep the course of sound consent;I, Plenty, spare and spend as cause requires.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.Make much of us, all ye that married be;Speak well of us, all ye that mind to be;The time may come to want and wish all three.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.

Thematch that’s made for just and true respects,With evenness both of years and parentage,Of force must bring forth many good effects.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.

Thematch that’s made for just and true respects,

For where chaste love and liking sets the plant,And concord waters with a firm good-will,Of no good thing there can be any want.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.

Sound is the knot that Chastity hath tied,Sweet is the music Unity doth make,Sure is the store that Plenty doth provide.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.

Where Chasteness fails there Concord will decay,Where Concord fleets there Plenty will decease,Where Plenty wants there Love will wear away.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.

I, Chastity, restrain all strange desires;I, Concord, keep the course of sound consent;I, Plenty, spare and spend as cause requires.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.

Make much of us, all ye that married be;Speak well of us, all ye that mind to be;The time may come to want and wish all three.Pari jugo dulcis tractus.

FromWilliam Byrd’sSongs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

TheNightingale so pleasant and so gayIn greenwood groves delights to make his dwelling,In fields to fly, chanting his roundelay,At liberty, against the cage rebelling;But my poor heart with sorrows over swelling,Through bondage vile, binding my freedom short,No pleasure takes in these his sports excelling,Nor in his song receiveth no comfort.

TheNightingale so pleasant and so gay

FromThomas Bateson’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1604. (By Sir Philip Sidney.)

TheNightingale, so soon as April bringethUnto her rested sense a perfect waking,White late-bare earth proud of her clothing springeth,Sings out her woes, a thorn her songbook making;And mournfully bewailing,Her throat in tunes expresseth:While grief her heart oppresseth,For Tereus’ force o’er her chaste will prevailing.

TheNightingale, so soon as April bringeth

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

Thepeaceful western windThe winter storms hath tamed,And Nature in each kindThe kind heat hath inflamed:The forward buds so sweetly breatheOut of their earthly bowers,That heaven, which views their pomp beneath,Would fain be decked with flowers.See how the morning smilesOn her bright eastern hill,And with soft steps beguilesThem that lie slumbering still!The music-loving birds are comeFrom cliffs and rocks unknown,To see the trees and briars bloomThat late were overthrown.[17]What Saturn did destroy,Love’s Queen revives again;And now her naked boyDoth in the fields remain,Where he such pleasing change doth viewIn every living thing,As if the world were born anewTo gratify the spring.If all things life present,Why die my comforts then?Why suffers my content?Am I the worst of men?O, Beauty, be not thou accusedToo justly in this case!Unkindly if true love be used,’Twill yield thee little grace.[17]Old ed. “overflown.”

Thepeaceful western wind

See how the morning smilesOn her bright eastern hill,And with soft steps beguilesThem that lie slumbering still!The music-loving birds are comeFrom cliffs and rocks unknown,To see the trees and briars bloomThat late were overthrown.[17]

What Saturn did destroy,Love’s Queen revives again;And now her naked boyDoth in the fields remain,Where he such pleasing change doth viewIn every living thing,As if the world were born anewTo gratify the spring.

If all things life present,Why die my comforts then?Why suffers my content?Am I the worst of men?O, Beauty, be not thou accusedToo justly in this case!Unkindly if true love be used,’Twill yield thee little grace.

[17]Old ed. “overflown.”

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

Thereis a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies grow;A heavenly paradise is that placeWherein all pleasant fruits doth flow.There cherries grow which none may buy,Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds filled with snow;Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.Her eyes like angels watch them still,Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threatening with piercing frowns to killAll that attempt with eye or handThose sacred cherries to come nighTill “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

Thereis a garden in her face

Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds filled with snow;Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threatening with piercing frowns to killAll that attempt with eye or handThose sacred cherries to come nighTill “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

FromThomas Ford’sMusic of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

Thereis a Lady sweet and kind,Was never face so pleased my mind;I did but see her passing by,And yet I love her till I die.Her gesture, motion and her smilesHer wit, her voice my heart beguiles,Beguiles my heart, I know not why,And yet I love her till I die.Her free behaviour, winning looksWill make a Lawyer burn his books;I touched her not, alas! not I,And yet I love her till I die.Had I her fast betwixt mine arms,Judge you that think such sports were harms;Were’t any harm? no, no, fie, fie,For I will love her till I die.Should I remain confinèd thereSo long as Phœbus in his sphere,I to request, she to deny,Yet would I love her till I die.Cupid is wingèd and doth range,Her country so my love doth change:But change she earth, or change she sky,Yet will I love her till I die.

Thereis a Lady sweet and kind,Was never face so pleased my mind;I did but see her passing by,And yet I love her till I die.

Thereis a Lady sweet and kind,

Her gesture, motion and her smilesHer wit, her voice my heart beguiles,Beguiles my heart, I know not why,And yet I love her till I die.

Her free behaviour, winning looksWill make a Lawyer burn his books;I touched her not, alas! not I,And yet I love her till I die.

Had I her fast betwixt mine arms,Judge you that think such sports were harms;Were’t any harm? no, no, fie, fie,For I will love her till I die.

Should I remain confinèd thereSo long as Phœbus in his sphere,I to request, she to deny,Yet would I love her till I die.

Cupid is wingèd and doth range,Her country so my love doth change:But change she earth, or change she sky,Yet will I love her till I die.

FromMelismata, 1611.

Therewere three Ravens sat on a tree,—Down-a-down, hey down, hey down!There were three Ravens sat on a tree,—With a down!There were three Ravens sat on a tree,—They were as black as they might be:With a down, derry derry derry down down!The one of them said to his make[18]—Where shall we our breakfast take?Down in yonder greenè fieldThere lies a knight slain under his shield.His hounds they lie down at his feet:So well they their master keep.His hawks they fly so eagerly,There’s no fowl dare him come nigh.Down there comes a fallow doe,Great with young as she might go.She lift up his bloody head,And kist his wounds that were so red.She gat him upon her backAnd carried him to earthen lake.She buried him before the prime;She was dead ere even-time.God send every gentlemanSuch hounds, such hawks, and such a leman!With a down, derry.[18]Old ed. “mate”; but “make,” which is required for the rhyme, was a recognised form of “mate.”

Therewere three Ravens sat on a tree,—Down-a-down, hey down, hey down!There were three Ravens sat on a tree,—With a down!

Therewere three Ravens sat on a tree,—

There were three Ravens sat on a tree,—They were as black as they might be:With a down, derry derry derry down down!

The one of them said to his make[18]—Where shall we our breakfast take?

Down in yonder greenè fieldThere lies a knight slain under his shield.

His hounds they lie down at his feet:So well they their master keep.

His hawks they fly so eagerly,There’s no fowl dare him come nigh.

Down there comes a fallow doe,Great with young as she might go.

She lift up his bloody head,And kist his wounds that were so red.

She gat him upon her backAnd carried him to earthen lake.

She buried him before the prime;She was dead ere even-time.

God send every gentlemanSuch hounds, such hawks, and such a leman!With a down, derry.

[18]Old ed. “mate”; but “make,” which is required for the rhyme, was a recognised form of “mate.”

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

Think’stthou, Kate, to put me downWith a ‘No’ or with a frown?Since Love holds my heart in bandsI must do as Love commands.Love commands the hands to dareWhen the tongue of speech is spare,Chiefest lesson in Love’s school,—Put it in adventure, fool!Fools are they that fainting flinchFor a squeak, a scratch, a pinch:Women’s words have double sense:‘Stand away!’—a simple fence.If thy mistress swear she’ll cry,Fear her not, she’ll swear and lie:Such sweet oaths no sorrow bringTill the prick of conscience sting.

Think’stthou, Kate, to put me downWith a ‘No’ or with a frown?Since Love holds my heart in bandsI must do as Love commands.

Think’stthou, Kate, to put me down

Love commands the hands to dareWhen the tongue of speech is spare,Chiefest lesson in Love’s school,—Put it in adventure, fool!

Fools are they that fainting flinchFor a squeak, a scratch, a pinch:Women’s words have double sense:‘Stand away!’—a simple fence.

If thy mistress swear she’ll cry,Fear her not, she’ll swear and lie:Such sweet oaths no sorrow bringTill the prick of conscience sting.

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

Think’stthou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning?Parrots so can learn to prate, our speech by pieces gleaning:Nurses teach their children so about the time of weaning.Learn to speak first, then to woo, to wooing much pertaineth:He that courts us, wanting art, soon falters when he feigneth,Looks asquint on his discourse and smiles when he complaineth.Skilful anglers hide their hooks, fit baits for every season;But with crooked pins fish thou, as babes do that want reason:Gudgeons only can be caught with such poor tricks of treason.Ruth forgive me (if I erred) from human heart’s compassion,When I laughed sometimes too much to see thy foolish fashion:But, alas, who less could do that found so good occasion!

Think’stthou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning?Parrots so can learn to prate, our speech by pieces gleaning:Nurses teach their children so about the time of weaning.

Think’stthou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning?

Learn to speak first, then to woo, to wooing much pertaineth:He that courts us, wanting art, soon falters when he feigneth,Looks asquint on his discourse and smiles when he complaineth.

Skilful anglers hide their hooks, fit baits for every season;But with crooked pins fish thou, as babes do that want reason:Gudgeons only can be caught with such poor tricks of treason.

Ruth forgive me (if I erred) from human heart’s compassion,When I laughed sometimes too much to see thy foolish fashion:But, alas, who less could do that found so good occasion!

FromJohn Wilbye’sMadrigals, 1598.

Thouart but young, thou say’st,And love’s delight thou weigh’st not:O, take time while thou may’st,Lest when thou would’st thou may’st not.If love shall then assail thee,A double anguish will torment thee;And thou wilt wish (but wishes all will fail thee,)“O me! that I were young again!” and so repent thee.

Thouart but young, thou say’st,And love’s delight thou weigh’st not:O, take time while thou may’st,Lest when thou would’st thou may’st not.

Thouart but young, thou say’st,

If love shall then assail thee,A double anguish will torment thee;And thou wilt wish (but wishes all will fail thee,)“O me! that I were young again!” and so repent thee.

FromCampionandRosseter’sBook of Airs, 1601. (Ascribed to Dr. Donne.)

Thouart not fair, for all thy red and white,For all those rosy ornaments in thee;Thou art not sweet, tho’ made of mere delight,Nor fair, nor sweet—unless thou pity me.I will not soothe thy fancies, thou shalt proveThat beauty is no beauty without love.Yet love not me, nor seek not to allureMy thoughts with beauty were it more divine;Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,I’ll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine:Now show it, if thou be a woman right,—Embrace and kiss and love me in despite.

Thouart not fair, for all thy red and white,

Yet love not me, nor seek not to allureMy thoughts with beauty were it more divine;Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,I’ll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine:Now show it, if thou be a woman right,—Embrace and kiss and love me in despite.

FromJohn Danyel’sSongs for the Lute, Viol, and Voice, 1606.

Thoupretty Bird, how do I seeThy silly state and mine agree!For thou a prisoner art;So is my heart.Thou sing’st to her, and so do I addressMy Music to her ear that’s merciless;But herein doth the difference lie,—That thou art grac’d, so am not I;Thou singing liv’st, and I must singing die.

Thoupretty Bird, how do I see

FromWilliam Byrd’sPsalms, Sonnets, and Songs of Sadness and Piety, 1588.

ThoughAmaryllis dance in greenLike Fairy Queen,And sing full clear;Corinna can, with smiling cheer.Yet since their eyes make heart so sore,Hey ho! chil love no more.My sheep are lost for want of foodAnd I so wood[19]That all the dayI sit and watch a herd-maid gay;Who laughs to see me sigh so sore,Hey ho! chil love no more.Her loving looks, her beauty bright,Is such delight!That all in vainI love to like, and lose my gainFor her, that thanks me not therefore.Hey ho! chil love no more.Ah wanton eyes! my friendly foesAnd cause of woes;Your sweet desireBreeds flames of ice, and freeze in fire!Ye scorn to see me weep so sore!Hey ho! chil love no more.Love ye who list, I force him not:Since God is wot,The more I wail,The less my sighs and tears prevail.What shall I do? but say therefore,Hey ho! chil love no more.[19]Distracted.

ThoughAmaryllis dance in greenLike Fairy Queen,And sing full clear;Corinna can, with smiling cheer.Yet since their eyes make heart so sore,Hey ho! chil love no more.

ThoughAmaryllis dance in green

My sheep are lost for want of foodAnd I so wood[19]That all the dayI sit and watch a herd-maid gay;Who laughs to see me sigh so sore,Hey ho! chil love no more.

Her loving looks, her beauty bright,Is such delight!That all in vainI love to like, and lose my gainFor her, that thanks me not therefore.Hey ho! chil love no more.

Ah wanton eyes! my friendly foesAnd cause of woes;Your sweet desireBreeds flames of ice, and freeze in fire!Ye scorn to see me weep so sore!Hey ho! chil love no more.

Love ye who list, I force him not:Since God is wot,The more I wail,The less my sighs and tears prevail.What shall I do? but say therefore,Hey ho! chil love no more.

[19]Distracted.

FromThomas Weelkes’Airs or Fantastic Spirits, 1608.

Thoughmy carriage be but careless,Though my looks be of the sternest,Yet my passions are compareless;When I love, I love in earnest.No; my wits are not so wild,But a gentle soul may yoke me;Nor my heart so hard compiled,But it melts, if love provoke me.

Thoughmy carriage be but careless,Though my looks be of the sternest,Yet my passions are compareless;When I love, I love in earnest.

Thoughmy carriage be but careless,

No; my wits are not so wild,But a gentle soul may yoke me;Nor my heart so hard compiled,But it melts, if love provoke me.

FromRobert Jones’Musical Dream, 1609. (This song is also printed in Thomas Campion’sTwo Books of Airs, circ. 1613.)

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