Chapter 7

Thoughyour strangeness frets my heart,Yet must I not complain;You persuade me ’tis but artWhich secret love must feign;If another you affect,’Tis but a toy, t’ avoid suspect.Is this fair excusing?O no, all is abusing.When your wish’d sight I desire,Suspicion you pretend,Causeless you yourself retireWhilst I in vain attend,Thus a lover, as you say,Still made more eager by delay.Is this fair excusing?O no, all is abusing.When another holds your handYou’ll swear I hold your heart;Whilst my rival close doth standAnd I sit far apart,I am nearer yet than they,Hid in your bosom, as you say.Is this fair excusing?O no, all is abusing.Would a rival then I wereOr[20]else a secret friend,So much lesser should I fearAnd not so much attend.They enjoy you, every one,Yet must I seem your friend alone.Is this fair excusing?O no, all is abusing.[20]Old ed. “Some.”

Thoughyour strangeness frets my heart,

When your wish’d sight I desire,Suspicion you pretend,Causeless you yourself retireWhilst I in vain attend,Thus a lover, as you say,Still made more eager by delay.Is this fair excusing?O no, all is abusing.

When another holds your handYou’ll swear I hold your heart;Whilst my rival close doth standAnd I sit far apart,I am nearer yet than they,Hid in your bosom, as you say.Is this fair excusing?O no, all is abusing.

Would a rival then I wereOr[20]else a secret friend,So much lesser should I fearAnd not so much attend.They enjoy you, every one,Yet must I seem your friend alone.Is this fair excusing?O no, all is abusing.

[20]Old ed. “Some.”

FromGiles Farnaby’sCanzonets, 1598.

Thriceblessèd be the giverThat gave sweet love that golden quiver,And live he long among the gods anointedThat made the arrow-heads sharp-pointed:If either of them both had quailèd,She of my love and I of hers hadfailèd.

Thriceblessèd be the giver

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

Thricetoss these oaken ashes in the air,Thrice sit thou mute in the enchanted chair,Then thrice-three times tie up this true love’s knot,And murmur soft “She will or she will not.”Go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,These screech-owl’s feathers and this prickling briar,This cypress gathered at a dead man’s grave,That all my fears and cares an end may have.Then come, you Fairies! dance with me a round!Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound!—In vain are all the charms I can devise:She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

Thricetoss these oaken ashes in the air,Thrice sit thou mute in the enchanted chair,Then thrice-three times tie up this true love’s knot,And murmur soft “She will or she will not.”

Thricetoss these oaken ashes in the air,

Go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,These screech-owl’s feathers and this prickling briar,This cypress gathered at a dead man’s grave,That all my fears and cares an end may have.

Then come, you Fairies! dance with me a round!Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound!—In vain are all the charms I can devise:She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

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

ThusI resolve and Time hath taught me so:Since she is fair and ever kind to me,Though she be wild and wanton-like in show,Those little stains in youth I will not see.That she be constant, heaven I oft implore;If prayers prevail not, I can do no more.Palm-tree the more you press, the more it grows;Leave it alone, it will not much exceed:Free beauty, if you strive to yoke, you lose,And for affection strange distaste you breed.What nature hath not taught no art can frame;Wild-born be wild still, though by force you tame.

ThusI resolve and Time hath taught me so:

Palm-tree the more you press, the more it grows;Leave it alone, it will not much exceed:Free beauty, if you strive to yoke, you lose,And for affection strange distaste you breed.What nature hath not taught no art can frame;Wild-born be wild still, though by force you tame.

FromJohn Wilbye’sMadrigals, 1598.

Thussaith my Chloris brightWhen we of love sit down and talk together:—“Beware of Love, dear; Love is a walking sprite,And Love is this and thatAnd, O, I know not what,And comes and goes again I wot not whether.”[21]No, no, these are but bugs to breed amazing,For in her eyes I saw his torch-light blazing.[21]Old form of “whither.”

Thussaith my Chloris bright

[21]Old form of “whither.”

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

Thussaith my Galatea:Love long hath been deluded,When shall it be concluded?The young nymphs all are wedded:Ah, then why do I tarry?Oh, let me die or marry.

Thussaith my Galatea:Love long hath been deluded,When shall it be concluded?

Thussaith my Galatea:

The young nymphs all are wedded:Ah, then why do I tarry?Oh, let me die or marry.

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

Tohis sweet lute Apollo sang the motions of the spheres,The wondrous orders of the stars whose course divides the years,And all the mysteries above;But none of this could Midas move:Which purchased him his ass’s ears.Then Pan with his rude pipe began the country wealth t’ advance,To boast of cattle, flocks of sheep, and goats on hills that dance,With much more of this churlish kind,That quite transported Midas’ mind,And held him wrapt in trance.This wrong the God of Music scorned from such a sottish judge,And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the piper trudge:Then Midas’ head he so did trimThat every age yet talks of himAnd Phœbus’ right revengèd grudge.

Tohis sweet lute Apollo sang the motions of the spheres,

Then Pan with his rude pipe began the country wealth t’ advance,To boast of cattle, flocks of sheep, and goats on hills that dance,With much more of this churlish kind,That quite transported Midas’ mind,And held him wrapt in trance.

This wrong the God of Music scorned from such a sottish judge,And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the piper trudge:Then Midas’ head he so did trimThat every age yet talks of himAnd Phœbus’ right revengèd grudge.

FromRobert Dowland’sMusical Banquet, 1610. (The lines are assigned to Robert Deveureux, Earl of Essex.)

Toplead my faith, where faith hath no reward,To move remorse where favour is not borne,To heap complaints where she doth not regard,Were fruitless, bootless, vain, and yield but scorn.I lovèd her whom all the world admired,I was refused of her that can love none,And my vain hopes which far too high aspiredIs dead and buried and for ever gone.Forget my name since you have scorned my love,And woman-like do not too late lament:Since for your sake I do all mischief prove,I none accuse nor nothing do repent:I was as fond as ever she was fair,Yet loved I not more than I now despair.

Toplead my faith, where faith hath no reward,To move remorse where favour is not borne,To heap complaints where she doth not regard,Were fruitless, bootless, vain, and yield but scorn.

Toplead my faith, where faith hath no reward,

I lovèd her whom all the world admired,I was refused of her that can love none,And my vain hopes which far too high aspiredIs dead and buried and for ever gone.

Forget my name since you have scorned my love,And woman-like do not too late lament:Since for your sake I do all mischief prove,I none accuse nor nothing do repent:I was as fond as ever she was fair,Yet loved I not more than I now despair.

FromThomas Weelkes’Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

Toshorten winter’s sadnessSee where the nymphs with gladnessFa la la!Disguisèd all are coming,Right wantonly a-mumming.Fa la la!Though masks encloud their beauty,Yet give the eye her duty.Fa la la!When Heaven is dark it shinethAnd unto love inclineth.Fa la la!

Toshorten winter’s sadnessSee where the nymphs with gladnessFa la la!

Toshorten winter’s sadness

Disguisèd all are coming,Right wantonly a-mumming.Fa la la!

Though masks encloud their beauty,Yet give the eye her duty.Fa la la!

When Heaven is dark it shinethAnd unto love inclineth.Fa la la!

FromJohn Dowland’sSecond Book of Songs and Airs, 1600.

Tossnot my soul, O Love, ’twixt hope and fear!Show me some ground where I may firmly stand,Or surely fall! I care not which appear,So one will close me in a certain band.When once of ill the uttermost is known;The strength of sorrow quite is overthrown!Take me, Assurance, to thy blissful hold!Or thou Despair, unto thy darkest cell!Each hath full rest: the one, in joys enroll’d;Th’ other, in that he fears no more, is well.When once the uttermost of ill is known,The strength of sorrow quite is overthrown.

Tossnot my soul, O Love, ’twixt hope and fear!

Take me, Assurance, to thy blissful hold!Or thou Despair, unto thy darkest cell!Each hath full rest: the one, in joys enroll’d;Th’ other, in that he fears no more, is well.When once the uttermost of ill is known,The strength of sorrow quite is overthrown.

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

Turnall thy thoughts to eyes,Turn all thy hairs to ears,Change all thy friends to spiesAnd all thy joys to fears;True love will yet be freeIn spite of jealousy.Turn darkness into day,Conjectures into truth,Believe what th’ envious say,Let age interpret youth:True love will yet be freeIn spite of jealousy.Wrest every word and look,Rack every hidden thought;Or fish with golden hook,True love cannot be caught:For that will still be freeIn spite of jealousy.

Turnall thy thoughts to eyes,Turn all thy hairs to ears,Change all thy friends to spiesAnd all thy joys to fears;True love will yet be freeIn spite of jealousy.

Turnall thy thoughts to eyes,

Turn darkness into day,Conjectures into truth,Believe what th’ envious say,Let age interpret youth:True love will yet be freeIn spite of jealousy.

Wrest every word and look,Rack every hidden thought;Or fish with golden hook,True love cannot be caught:For that will still be freeIn spite of jealousy.

FromThomas Ford’sMusic of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

Untothe temple of thy beauty,And to the tomb where pity lies,I, pilgrim-clad with zeal and duty,Do offer up my heart, mine eyes.My heart, lo! in the quenchless fire,On love’s burning altar lies,Conducted thither by desireTo be beauty’s sacrifice.But pity on thy sable hearse,Mine eyes the tears of sorrow shed;What though tears cannot fate reverse,Yet are they duties to the dead.O, Mistress, in thy sanctuaryWhy wouldst thou suffer cold disdainTo use his frozen cruelty,And gentle pity to be slain?Pity that to thy beauty fled,And with thy beauty should have lived,Ah, in thy heart lies burièd,And nevermore may be revived;Yet this last favour, dear, extend,To accept these vows, these tears I shed,Duties which I thy pilgrim send,To beauty living, pity dead.

Untothe temple of thy beauty,

But pity on thy sable hearse,Mine eyes the tears of sorrow shed;What though tears cannot fate reverse,Yet are they duties to the dead.O, Mistress, in thy sanctuaryWhy wouldst thou suffer cold disdainTo use his frozen cruelty,And gentle pity to be slain?

Pity that to thy beauty fled,And with thy beauty should have lived,Ah, in thy heart lies burièd,And nevermore may be revived;Yet this last favour, dear, extend,To accept these vows, these tears I shed,Duties which I thy pilgrim send,To beauty living, pity dead.

FromThomas Weelkes’Airs or Fantastic Spirits, 1608.

Upona hill the bonny boySweet Thyrsis sweetly played,And called his lambs their master’s joy,And more he would have said;But love that gives the lover wingsWithdrew his mind from other things.His pipe and he could not agree,For Milla was his note;The silly pipe could never getThis lovely name by rote:With that they both fell in a sound,[22]He fell a-sleep, his pipe to ground.[22]Swoon.

Upona hill the bonny boySweet Thyrsis sweetly played,And called his lambs their master’s joy,And more he would have said;But love that gives the lover wingsWithdrew his mind from other things.

Upona hill the bonny boy

His pipe and he could not agree,For Milla was his note;The silly pipe could never getThis lovely name by rote:With that they both fell in a sound,[22]He fell a-sleep, his pipe to ground.

[22]Swoon.

FromWilliam Byrd’sSongs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

Upona summer’s day Love went to swim,And cast himself into a sea of tears;The clouds called in their light, and heaven waxed dim,And sighs did raise a tempest, causing fears;The naked boy could not so wield his arms,But that the waves were masters of his might,And threatened him to work far greater harmsIf he devisèd not to scape by flight:Then for a boat his quiver stood instead,His bow unbent did serve him for a mast,Whereby to sail his cloth of veil he spread,His shafts for oars on either board he cast:From shipwreck safe this wag got thus to shore,And sware to bathe in lovers’ tears no more.

Upona summer’s day Love went to swim,

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

Vainmen! whose follies make a god of love;Whose blindness, beauty doth immortal deem,Praise not what you desire, but what you prove;Count those things good that are, not those that seem.I cannot call her true, that’s false to me;Nor make of women, more than women be.How fair an entrance breaks the way to love!How rich the golden hope, and gay delight!What heart cannot a modest beauty move?Who seeing clear day once will dream of night?She seemed a saint, that brake her faith with me;But proved a woman, as all other be.So bitter is their sweet that True ContentUnhappy meninthem may never find:Ah! butwithoutthem, none. Both must consent,Else uncouth are the joys of either kind.Let us then praise their good, forget their ill!Men must be men, and women women still.

Vainmen! whose follies make a god of love;

How fair an entrance breaks the way to love!How rich the golden hope, and gay delight!What heart cannot a modest beauty move?Who seeing clear day once will dream of night?She seemed a saint, that brake her faith with me;But proved a woman, as all other be.

So bitter is their sweet that True ContentUnhappy meninthem may never find:Ah! butwithoutthem, none. Both must consent,Else uncouth are the joys of either kind.Let us then praise their good, forget their ill!Men must be men, and women women still.

FromFrancis Pilkington’sSecond Set of Madrigals, 1624.

Wake, sleepy Thyrsis, wakeFor Love and Venus’ sake!Come, let us mount the hillsWhich Zephyrus with cool breath fills;Or let us tread new alleys,In yonder shady valleys.Rise, rise, rise, rise!Lighten thy heavy eyes:See how the streams do glideAnd the green meads divide:But stream nor fire shall partThis and this joinèd heart.

Wake, sleepy Thyrsis, wake

FromDeuteromelia, 1609.

Webe soldiers three,Pardona moy je vous an pree,Lately come forth of the Low CountryWith never a penny of money.Fa la la la lantido dilly.Here, good fellow, I drink to thee,Pardona moy je vous an pree,To all good fellows wherever they be,With never a penny of money.And he that will not pledge me this,Pardona moy je vous an pree,Pays for the shot whatever it is,With never a penny of money.Charge it again, boy, charge it again,Pardona moy je vous an pree,As long as there is any ink in thy pen,With never a penny of money.

Webe soldiers three,Pardona moy je vous an pree,Lately come forth of the Low CountryWith never a penny of money.Fa la la la lantido dilly.

Webe soldiers three,

Here, good fellow, I drink to thee,Pardona moy je vous an pree,To all good fellows wherever they be,With never a penny of money.

And he that will not pledge me this,Pardona moy je vous an pree,Pays for the shot whatever it is,With never a penny of money.

Charge it again, boy, charge it again,Pardona moy je vous an pree,As long as there is any ink in thy pen,With never a penny of money.

FromDeuteromelia, 1609.

Webe three poor mariners,Newly come from the seas;We spend our lives in jeopardyWhile others live at ease.Shall we go dance the round, the round,Shall we go dance the round?And he that is a bully boyCome pledge me on this ground!We care not for those martial menThat do our states disdain;But we care for the merchant menWho do our states maintain:To them we dance this round, around,To them we dance this round;And he that is a bully boyCome pledge me on this ground!

Webe three poor mariners,

We care not for those martial menThat do our states disdain;But we care for the merchant menWho do our states maintain:To them we dance this round, around,To them we dance this round;And he that is a bully boyCome pledge me on this ground!

FromEgerton MS., 2013.

Wemust not part as others do,With sighs and tears, as we were two:Though with these outward forms we part,We keep each other in our heart.What search hath found a being, whereI am not, if that thou be there?True love hath wings, and can as soonSurvey the world as sun and moon,And everywhere our triumphs keepO’er absence which makes others weep:By which alone a power is givenTo live on earth, as they in heaven.

Wemust not part as others do,

True love hath wings, and can as soonSurvey the world as sun and moon,And everywhere our triumphs keepO’er absence which makes others weep:By which alone a power is givenTo live on earth, as they in heaven.

FromThomas Weelkes’Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voices, 1598.

Weshepherds sing, we pipe, we play,With pretty sport we pass the day:Fa la!We care for no gold,But with our foldWe danceAnd pranceAs pleasure would.Fa la!

Weshepherds sing, we pipe, we play,

FromWilliam Byrd’sPsalms, Songs, and Sonnets, 1611.

Weddedto will is witless,And seldom he is skilfulThat bears the name of wise and yet is wilful.To govern he is fitlessThat deals not by election,But by his fond affection.O that it might be treasonFor men to rule by will and not by reason.

Weddedto will is witless,

FromThomas Tomkins’Songs of Three, Four, Five, and Six Parts, 1622.

Weepno more, thou sorry boy;Love’s pleased and anger’d with a toy.Love a thousand passion brings,Laughs and weeps, and sighs and sings.Ifshesmiles, he dancing goes,And thinks not on his future woes:Ifshechide with angry eye,Sits down, and sighs “Ah me, I die!”Yet again, as soon revived,Joys as much as late he grieved.Change there is of joy and sadness,Sorrow much, but more of gladness.Then weep no more, thou sorry boy,Turn thy tears to weeping joy.Sigh no more “Ah me! I die!”But dance, and sing, and ti-hy cry.

Weepno more, thou sorry boy;

FromJohn Rowland’sThird and Last Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.

Weepyou no more, sad fountains;What need you flow so fast?Look how the snowy mountainsHeaven’s sun doth gently waste!But my sun’s heavenly eyes,View not your weeping,That now lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets;Doth not the sun rise smilingWhen fair at ev’n he sets?Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping,While she lies sleeping,Softly, now softly liesSleeping.

Weepyou no more, sad fountains;

Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets;Doth not the sun rise smilingWhen fair at ev’n he sets?Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping,While she lies sleeping,Softly, now softly liesSleeping.

FromThomas Weelkes’Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voices, 1598.

Welcome, sweet pleasure,My wealth and treasure;To haste our playingThere’s no delaying,No no!This mirth delights meWhen sorrow frights me.Then sing we allFa la la la la!Sorrow, content thee,Mirth must prevent thee:Though much thou grievestThou none relievest.No no!Joy, come delight me,Though sorrow spite me.Then sing we allFa la la la la!Grief is disdainful,Sottish and painful:Then wait on pleasure,And lose no leisure.No no!Heart’s ease it lendethAnd comfort sendeth.Then sing we allFa la la la la!

Welcome, sweet pleasure,My wealth and treasure;To haste our playingThere’s no delaying,No no!This mirth delights meWhen sorrow frights me.Then sing we allFa la la la la!

Welcome, sweet pleasure,

Sorrow, content thee,Mirth must prevent thee:Though much thou grievestThou none relievest.No no!Joy, come delight me,Though sorrow spite me.Then sing we allFa la la la la!

Grief is disdainful,Sottish and painful:Then wait on pleasure,And lose no leisure.No no!Heart’s ease it lendethAnd comfort sendeth.Then sing we allFa la la la la!

FromJohn Mundy’sSongs and Psalms, 1594.

WereI a king, I might command content;Were I obscure, unknown should be my cares:And were I dead, no thoughts should me torment,Nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears.A doubtful choice, of three things one to crave;A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave.

WereI a king, I might command content;

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

Weremy heart as some men’s are, thy errors would not move me,But thy faults I curious find and speak because I love thee;Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting,Than th’ obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting;Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.While I use of eyes enjoy and inward light of reason,Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season;Hidden mischief to conceal in state and love is treason.

Weremy heart as some men’s are, thy errors would not move me,But thy faults I curious find and speak because I love thee;Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.

Weremy heart as some men’s are, thy errors would not move me,

Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting,Than th’ obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting;Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.

While I use of eyes enjoy and inward light of reason,Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season;Hidden mischief to conceal in state and love is treason.

FromPammelia, 1609.

Whathap had I to marry a shrow!For she hath given me many a blow,And how to please her alack I do not know.From morn to even her tongue ne’er lies,Sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries,Yet I can scarce keep her talents[23]from mine eyes.If I go abroad and late come in,—“Sir knave,” saith she, “Where have you been?”And do I well or ill she claps me on the skin.[23]Old form of “talons.”

Whathap had I to marry a shrow!For she hath given me many a blow,And how to please her alack I do not know.

Whathap had I to marry a shrow!

From morn to even her tongue ne’er lies,Sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries,Yet I can scarce keep her talents[23]from mine eyes.

If I go abroad and late come in,—“Sir knave,” saith she, “Where have you been?”And do I well or ill she claps me on the skin.

[23]Old form of “talons.”

FromOrlando Gibbons’First Set Of Madrigals, 1612. (Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)

Whatis our life? a play of passion:Our mirth? the music of division.Our mothers’ wombs the tyring-houses beWhere we are drest for this short comedy:Heaven the judicious sharp spectator isThat sits and marks whoe’er doth act amiss:Our graves, that hide us from the searching sun,Are like drawn curtains when the play is done:Thus march we playing to our latest rest,Only we die in earnest,—that’s no jest.

Whatis our life? a play of passion:

FromJohn Wilbye’sMadrigals, 1598.

Whatneedeth all this travail and turmoiling,Short’ning the life’s sweet pleasureTo seek this far-fetched treasureIn those hot climates under Phœbus broiling?O fools, can you not see a traffic nearerIn my sweet lady’s face, where Nature showethWhatever treasure eye sees or heart knoweth?Rubies and diamonds daintyAnd orient pearls such plenty,Coral and ambergreece sweeter and dearerThan which the South Seas or Moluccas lend us,Or either Indies, East or West, do send us!

Whatneedeth all this travail and turmoiling,Short’ning the life’s sweet pleasureTo seek this far-fetched treasureIn those hot climates under Phœbus broiling?

Whatneedeth all this travail and turmoiling,

O fools, can you not see a traffic nearerIn my sweet lady’s face, where Nature showethWhatever treasure eye sees or heart knoweth?Rubies and diamonds daintyAnd orient pearls such plenty,Coral and ambergreece sweeter and dearerThan which the South Seas or Moluccas lend us,Or either Indies, East or West, do send us!

FromWilliam Byrd’sPsalms, Sonnets, and Songs, 1588.

Whatpleasure have great princesMore dainty to their choiceThan herdsmen wild, who carelessIn quiet life rejoice,And fortune’s fate not fearingSing sweet in summer morning?Their dealings plain and rightful,Are void of all deceit;They never know how spiteful,It is to kneel and waitOn favourite presumptuousWhose pride is vain and sumptuous.All day their flocks each tendeth;At night, they take their rest;More quiet than who sendethHis ship into the East,Where gold and pearl are plenty;But getting, very dainty.For lawyers and their pleading,They ’steem it not a straw;They think that honest meaningIs of itself a law:Whence conscience judgeth plainly,They spend no money vainly.O happy who thus liveth!Not caring much for gold;With clothing which sufficethTo keep him from the cold.Though poor and plain his dietYet merry it is, and quiet.

Whatpleasure have great princesMore dainty to their choiceThan herdsmen wild, who carelessIn quiet life rejoice,And fortune’s fate not fearingSing sweet in summer morning?

Whatpleasure have great princes

Their dealings plain and rightful,Are void of all deceit;They never know how spiteful,It is to kneel and waitOn favourite presumptuousWhose pride is vain and sumptuous.

All day their flocks each tendeth;At night, they take their rest;More quiet than who sendethHis ship into the East,Where gold and pearl are plenty;But getting, very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading,They ’steem it not a straw;They think that honest meaningIs of itself a law:Whence conscience judgeth plainly,They spend no money vainly.

O happy who thus liveth!Not caring much for gold;With clothing which sufficethTo keep him from the cold.Though poor and plain his dietYet merry it is, and quiet.

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

Whatpoor astronomers are they,Take women’s eyes for stars!And set their thoughts in battle ’ray,To fight such idle wars;When in the end they shall approve’Tis but a jest drawn out of Love.And Love itself is but a jestDevised by idle heads,To catch young Fancies in the nest,And lay them in fool’s beds;That being hatched in beauty’s eyesThey may be fledged ere they be wise.But yet it is a sport to see,How Wit will run on wheels!While Wit cannot persuaded be,With that which Reason feels,That women’s eyes and stars are oddAnd Love is but a feignèd god!But such as will run mad with Will,I cannot clear their sightBut leave them to their study still,To look where is no light!Till time too late, we make them try,They study false Astronomy!

Whatpoor astronomers are they,Take women’s eyes for stars!And set their thoughts in battle ’ray,To fight such idle wars;When in the end they shall approve’Tis but a jest drawn out of Love.

Whatpoor astronomers are they,

And Love itself is but a jestDevised by idle heads,To catch young Fancies in the nest,And lay them in fool’s beds;That being hatched in beauty’s eyesThey may be fledged ere they be wise.

But yet it is a sport to see,How Wit will run on wheels!While Wit cannot persuaded be,With that which Reason feels,That women’s eyes and stars are oddAnd Love is but a feignèd god!

But such as will run mad with Will,I cannot clear their sightBut leave them to their study still,To look where is no light!Till time too late, we make them try,They study false Astronomy!

FromThomas Ford’sMusic of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

Whatthen is love, sings Corydon,Since Phyllida is grown so coy?A flattering glass to gaze upon,A busy jest, a serious toy,A flower still budding, never blown,A scanty dearth in fullest storeYielding least fruit where most is sown.My daily note shall be therefore—Heigh ho, chil love no more.’Tis like a morning dewy roseSpread fairly to the sun’s arise,But when his beams he doth discloseThat which then flourish’d quickly dies;It is a seld-fed dying hope,A promised bliss, a salveless sore,An aimless mark, and erring scope.My daily note shall be therefore,—Heigh ho, chil love no more.’Tis like a lamp shining to all,Whilst in itself it doth decay;It seems to free whom it doth thrall,And lead our pathless thoughts astray.It is the spring of wintered heartsParched by the summer’s heat beforeFaint hope to kindly warmth converts.My daily note shall be therefore—Heigh ho, chil love no more.

Whatthen is love, sings Corydon,

’Tis like a morning dewy roseSpread fairly to the sun’s arise,But when his beams he doth discloseThat which then flourish’d quickly dies;It is a seld-fed dying hope,A promised bliss, a salveless sore,An aimless mark, and erring scope.My daily note shall be therefore,—Heigh ho, chil love no more.

’Tis like a lamp shining to all,Whilst in itself it doth decay;It seems to free whom it doth thrall,And lead our pathless thoughts astray.It is the spring of wintered heartsParched by the summer’s heat beforeFaint hope to kindly warmth converts.My daily note shall be therefore—Heigh ho, chil love no more.

FromRichard Carlton’sMadrigals, 1601.

WhenFlora fair the pleasant tidings bringethOf summer sweet with herbs and flowers adornèd,The nightingale upon the hawthorn singethAnd Boreas’ blasts the birds and beasts have scornèd;When fresh Aurora with her colours painted,Mingled with spears of gold, the sun appearing,Delights the hearts that are with love acquainted,And maying maids have then their time of cheering;All creatures then with summer are delighted,The beasts, the birds, the fish with scale of silver;Then stately dames by lovers are invitedTo walk in meads or row upon the river.I all alone am from these joys exilèd,No summer grows where love yet never smilèd.

WhenFlora fair the pleasant tidings bringeth

FromWilliam Byrd’sSongs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

WhenI was otherwise than now I am,I lovèd more but skillèd not so muchFair words and smiles could have contented then,My simple age and ignorance was such:But at the length experience made me wonderThat hearts and tongues did lodge so far asunder.As watermen which on the Thames do row,Look to the east but west keeps on the way;My sovereign sweet her count’nance settled so,To feed my hope while she her snares might lay:And when she saw that I was in her danger,Good God, how soon she provèd then a ranger!I could not choose but laugh, although too late,To see great craft decypher’d in a toy;I love her still, but such conditions hateWhich so profanes my paradise of joy.Love whets the wits, whose pain is but a pleasure;A toy, by fits to play withal at leisure.

WhenI was otherwise than now I am,

As watermen which on the Thames do row,Look to the east but west keeps on the way;My sovereign sweet her count’nance settled so,To feed my hope while she her snares might lay:And when she saw that I was in her danger,Good God, how soon she provèd then a ranger!

I could not choose but laugh, although too late,To see great craft decypher’d in a toy;I love her still, but such conditions hateWhich so profanes my paradise of joy.Love whets the wits, whose pain is but a pleasure;A toy, by fits to play withal at leisure.

FromCampionandRosseter’sBook of Airs, 1601.

Whenthou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,To hear the stories of thy finished loveFrom that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights,And all these triumphs for thy beauty sake:When thou hast told these honours done to thee,Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.

Whenthou must home to shades of underground,

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights,And all these triumphs for thy beauty sake:When thou hast told these honours done to thee,Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.

FromWilliam Byrd’sSongs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

δεινὸς Ἔρως, δεινός· τί δὲ τὸ πλέον, ἢν πάλιν εἴπω,καὶ πάλιν, οἰμώζων πολλάκι, δεινὸς Ἔρως;Meleag.

Whenyounglings first on Cupid fix their sight,And see him naked, blindfold, and a boy,Though bow and shafts and firebrand be his might,Yet ween they he can work them none annoy;And therefore with his purple wings they play,For glorious seemeth love though light as feather,And when they have done they ween to scape away,For blind men, say they, shoot they know not whither.But when by proof they find that he did see,And that his wound did rather dim their sight,They wonder more how such a lad as heShould be of such surpassing power and might.But ants have galls, so hath the bee his sting:Then shield me, heavens, from such a subtle thing!

Whenyounglings first on Cupid fix their sight,

FromJohn Wilbye’sSecond Set of Madrigals, 1609.

Wheremost my thoughts, there least mine eye is striking;Where least I come there most my heart abideth;Where most I love I never show my liking;From what my mind doth hold my body slideth;I show least care where most my care dependeth;A coy regard where most my soul attendeth.Despiteful thus unto myself I languish,And in disdain myself from joy I banish.These secret thoughts enwrap me so in anguishThat life, I hope, will soon from body vanish,And to some rest will quickly be conveyèdThat on no joy, while so I lived, hath stayèd.

Wheremost my thoughts, there least mine eye is striking;

Despiteful thus unto myself I languish,And in disdain myself from joy I banish.These secret thoughts enwrap me so in anguishThat life, I hope, will soon from body vanish,And to some rest will quickly be conveyèdThat on no joy, while so I lived, hath stayèd.

FromMartin Pearson’sMottects or Grave Chamber-Music, 1630.

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