LYRICS FROM ELIZABETHAN SONG-BOOKS.

Let well-tuned words amazeWith harmony divine.Campion.

FromFarmer’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

A littlepretty bonny lass was walkingIn midst of May before the sun gan rise;I took her by the hand and fell to talkingOf this and that as best I could devise:I swore I would—yet still she said I should not;Do what I would, and yet for all I could not.

A littlepretty bonny lass was walking

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

A shepherdin a shade his plaining madeOf love and lover’s wrongUnto the fairest lass that trod on grass,And thus began his song:“Since Love and Fortune will, I honour stillYour fair and lovely eye:What conquest will it be, sweet Nymph, for theeIf I for sorrow die?Restore, restore my heart againWhich love by thy sweet looks hath slain,Lest that, enforced by your disdain,I sing ‘Fie on love! it is a foolish thing.’“My heart where have you laid? O cruel maid,To kill when you might save!Why have ye cast it forth as nothing worth,Without a tomb or grave?O let it be entombed and lieIn your sweet mind and memory,Lest I resound on every warbling string‘Fie, fie on love! that is a foolish thing.’Restore, restore my heart againWhich love by thy sweet looks hath slain,Lest that, enforced by your disdain,I sing ‘Fie on love! it is a foolish thing.’”

A shepherdin a shade his plaining made

“My heart where have you laid? O cruel maid,To kill when you might save!Why have ye cast it forth as nothing worth,Without a tomb or grave?O let it be entombed and lieIn your sweet mind and memory,Lest I resound on every warbling string‘Fie, fie on love! that is a foolish thing.’Restore, restore my heart againWhich love by thy sweet looks hath slain,Lest that, enforced by your disdain,I sing ‘Fie on love! it is a foolish thing.’”

FromThomas Weelkes’Madrigals of Six Parts, 1600.

A Sparrow-Hawkproud did hold in wicked jailMusic’s sweet chorister, the nightingale,To whom with sighs she said: “O set me free!And in my song I’ll praise no bird but thee.”The hawk replied, “I will not lose my dietTo let a thousand such enjoy their quiet.”

A Sparrow-Hawkproud did hold in wicked jail

FromRobert Jones’First Book of Airs, 1601.

A woman’slooksAre barbèd hooks,That catch by artThe strongest heartWhen yet they spend no breath;But let them speak,And sighing breakForth into tears,Their words are spearsThat wound our souls to death.The rarest witIs made forget,And like a childIs oft beguiledWith love’s sweet-seeming bait;Love with his rodSo like a GodCommands the mind;We cannot find,Fair shows hide foul deceit.Time, that all thingsIn order brings,Hath taught me howTo be more slowIn giving faith to speech,Since women’s wordsNo truth affords,And when they kissThey think by thisUs men to over-reach.

A woman’slooks

The rarest witIs made forget,And like a childIs oft beguiledWith love’s sweet-seeming bait;Love with his rodSo like a GodCommands the mind;We cannot find,Fair shows hide foul deceit.

Time, that all thingsIn order brings,Hath taught me howTo be more slowIn giving faith to speech,Since women’s wordsNo truth affords,And when they kissThey think by thisUs men to over-reach.

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

Aboutthe maypole new, with glee and merriment,While as the bagpipe tooted it,Thyrsis and Chloris fine together footed it:And to the joyous instrumentStill they went to and fro, and finely flaunted it,And then both met again and thus they chaunted it.Fa la!The shepherds and the nymphs them round enclosèd had,Wond’ring with what facility,About they turn’d them in such strange agility;And still when they unloosèd had,With words full of delight they gently kissed them,And thus sweetly to sing they never missed them.Fa la!

Aboutthe maypole new, with glee and merriment,

The shepherds and the nymphs them round enclosèd had,Wond’ring with what facility,About they turn’d them in such strange agility;And still when they unloosèd had,With words full of delight they gently kissed them,And thus sweetly to sing they never missed them.Fa la!

FromJohn Wilbye’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1598.

Adieu, sweet Amaryllis!For since to part your will is,O heavy, heavy tiding!Here is for me no biding.Yet once again, ere that I part with you,Adieu, sweet Amaryllis; sweet, adieu!

Adieu, sweet Amaryllis!

FromThomas Morley’sFirst Book of Madrigals, 1594.

Aprilis in my mistress’ face,And July in her eyes hath place;Within her bosom is September,But in her heart a cold December.

Aprilis in my mistress’ face,

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

Arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun,Call all the winds to make you speedy wings,And to my fairest Maya see you runAnd weep your last while wantonly she sings;Then if you cannot move her heart to pity,LetOh, alas, ay mebe all your ditty.Arise, my thoughts, no more, if you returnDenied of grace which only you desire,But let the sun your wings to ashes burnAnd melt your passions in his quenchless fire;Yet, if you move fair Maya’s heart to pity,Let smiles and love and kisses be your ditty.Arise, my thoughts, beyond the highest starAnd gently rest you in fair Maya’s eye,For that is fairer than the brightest are;But, if she frown to see you climb so high,Couch in her lap, and with a moving ditty,Of smiles and love and kisses, beg for pity.

Arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun,

Arise, my thoughts, no more, if you returnDenied of grace which only you desire,But let the sun your wings to ashes burnAnd melt your passions in his quenchless fire;Yet, if you move fair Maya’s heart to pity,Let smiles and love and kisses be your ditty.

Arise, my thoughts, beyond the highest starAnd gently rest you in fair Maya’s eye,For that is fairer than the brightest are;But, if she frown to see you climb so high,Couch in her lap, and with a moving ditty,Of smiles and love and kisses, beg for pity.

FromThomas Campion’sTwo Books of Airs(circ. 1613).

Awake, awake! thou heavy spriteThat sleep’st the deadly sleep of sin!Rise now and walk the ways of light,’Tis not too late yet to begin.Seek heaven early, seek it late;True Faith finds still an open gate.Get up, get up, thou leaden man!Thy track, to endless joy or pain,Yields but the model of a span:Yet burns out thy life’s lamp in vain!One minute bounds thy bane or bliss;Then watch and labour while time is.

Awake, awake! thou heavy sprite

Get up, get up, thou leaden man!Thy track, to endless joy or pain,Yields but the model of a span:Yet burns out thy life’s lamp in vain!One minute bounds thy bane or bliss;Then watch and labour while time is.

FromHenry Youll’sCanzonets to three voices, 1608.

Awake, sweet Love! ’tis time to rise:Phœbus is risen in the east,Spreading his beams on those fair eyesWhich are enclosed with Nature’s rest.Awake, awake from heavy sleepWhich all thy thoughts in silence keep!

Awake, sweet Love! ’tis time to rise:

FromJohn Wilbye’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1598.

Ayme, can every rumourThus start my lady’s humour?Name ye some galante to her,Why straight forsooth I woo her.Then burst[s] she forth in passion“You men love but for fashion;”Yet sure I am that no manEver so lovèd woman.Then alas, Love, be wary,For women be contrary.

Ayme, can every rumour

FromThomas Bateson’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1604.

Ayme, my mistress scorns my love;I fear she will most cruel prove.I weep, I sigh, I grieve, I groan;Yet she regardeth not my moan.Then, Love, adieu! it fits not meTo weep for her that laughs at thee.

Ayme, my mistress scorns my love;

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

Beholda wonder here!Love hath receiv’d his sight!Which many hundred yearHath not beheld the light.Such beams infusèd beBy Cynthia in his eyes,As first have made him seeAnd then have made him wise.Love now no more will weepFor them that laugh the while!Nor wake for them that sleep,Nor sigh for them that smile!So powerful is the BeautyThat Love doth now behold,As Love is turned to DutyThat’s neither blind nor bold.Thus Beauty shows her mightTo be of double kind;In giving Love his sightAnd striking Folly blind.

Beholda wonder here!Love hath receiv’d his sight!Which many hundred yearHath not beheld the light.

Beholda wonder here!

Such beams infusèd beBy Cynthia in his eyes,As first have made him seeAnd then have made him wise.

Love now no more will weepFor them that laugh the while!Nor wake for them that sleep,Nor sigh for them that smile!

So powerful is the BeautyThat Love doth now behold,As Love is turned to DutyThat’s neither blind nor bold.

Thus Beauty shows her mightTo be of double kind;In giving Love his sightAnd striking Folly blind.

From the Second Book ofMusica Transalpina, 1597.

Brownis my Love, but graceful:And each renownèd whitenessMatch’d with thy lovely brown loseth its brightness.Fair is my Love, but scornful:Yet have I seen despisèdDainty white lilies, and sad flowers well prizèd.

Brownis my Love, but graceful:And each renownèd whitenessMatch’d with thy lovely brown loseth its brightness.

Brownis my Love, but graceful:

Fair is my Love, but scornful:Yet have I seen despisèdDainty white lilies, and sad flowers well prizèd.

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

Bya fountain where I lay,(All blessèd be that blessèd day!)By the glimm’ring of the sun,(O never be her shining done!)When I might see aloneMy true Love, fairest one!Love’s dear light!Love’s clear sight!No world’s eyes can clearer see!A fairer sight, none can be!Fair with garlands all addrest,(Was never Nymph more fairly blest!)Blessèd in the highest degree,(So may she ever blessèd be!)Came to this fountain near,With such a smiling cheer!Such a face,Such a grace!Happy, happy eyes, that seeSuch a heavenly sight as She!Then I forthwith took my pipe,Which I all fair and clean did wipe,And upon a heavenly ground,All in the grace of beauty found,Play’d this roundelay:“Welcome, fair Queen of May!Sing, sweet air!Welcome, Fair!Welcome be the Shepherds’ Queen,The glory of all our green!”

Bya fountain where I lay,

Fair with garlands all addrest,(Was never Nymph more fairly blest!)Blessèd in the highest degree,(So may she ever blessèd be!)Came to this fountain near,With such a smiling cheer!Such a face,Such a grace!Happy, happy eyes, that seeSuch a heavenly sight as She!

Then I forthwith took my pipe,Which I all fair and clean did wipe,And upon a heavenly ground,All in the grace of beauty found,Play’d this roundelay:“Welcome, fair Queen of May!Sing, sweet air!Welcome, Fair!Welcome be the Shepherds’ Queen,The glory of all our green!”

FromThomas Ravenscroft’sBrief Discourse, &c., 1614.

The Urchins’ Dance.Bythe moon we sport and play,With the night begins our day:As we frisk the dew doth fall;Trip it, little urchins all!Lightly as the little bee,Two by two, and three by three;And about, about go we.

The Urchins’ Dance.

Bythe moon we sport and play,With the night begins our day:As we frisk the dew doth fall;Trip it, little urchins all!Lightly as the little bee,Two by two, and three by three;And about, about go we.

Bythe moon we sport and play,

The Elves’ Dance.Roundabout in a fair ring-a,Thus we dance and thus we sing-a;Trip and go, to and fro,Over this green-a;All about, in and out,Over this green-a.

The Elves’ Dance.

Roundabout in a fair ring-a,Thus we dance and thus we sing-a;Trip and go, to and fro,Over this green-a;All about, in and out,Over this green-a.

Roundabout in a fair ring-a,

FromMelismata, 1611.

The Courtier’s Good Morrow to his Mistress.Canstthou love and lie alone?Love is so disgracèd,Pleasure is bestWherein is restIn a heart embracèd.Rise, rise, rise!Daylight do not burn out;Bells do ring and birds do sing,Only I that mourn out.Morning-star doth now appear,Wind is hushed and sky is clear;Come, come away, come, come away!Canst thou love and burn out day?Rise, rise, rise!Daylight do not burn out;Bells do ring [and] birds do sing,Only I that mourn out.

The Courtier’s Good Morrow to his Mistress.

Canstthou love and lie alone?

Morning-star doth now appear,Wind is hushed and sky is clear;Come, come away, come, come away!Canst thou love and burn out day?Rise, rise, rise!Daylight do not burn out;Bells do ring [and] birds do sing,Only I that mourn out.

FromRobert Dowland’sMusical Banquet, 1610. (Lines by the Earl of Essex.)

Changethy mind since she doth change,Let not fancy still abuse thee,Thy untruth cannot seem strangeWhen her falsehood doth excuse thee:Love is dead and thou art free,She doth live but dead to thee.Whilst she loved thee best a while,See how she hath still delayed thee:Using shows for to beguile,Those vain hopes that have deceived thee:Now thou seest, although too late,Love loves truth which women hate.Love no more since she is gone,She is gone and loves another:Being once deceived by one,Leave her love but love none other.She was false, bid her adieu,She was best but yet untrue.Love, farewell, more dear to meThan my life, which thou preservest.Life, all joys are gone from thee;Others have what thou deservest.Oh my death doth spring from hence,I must die for her offence.Die, but yet before thou die,Make her know what she hath gotten,She in whom my hopes did lieNow is changed, I quite forgotten.She is changed, but changèd base,Baser in so vild a place.

Changethy mind since she doth change,Let not fancy still abuse thee,Thy untruth cannot seem strangeWhen her falsehood doth excuse thee:Love is dead and thou art free,She doth live but dead to thee.

Changethy mind since she doth change,

Whilst she loved thee best a while,See how she hath still delayed thee:Using shows for to beguile,Those vain hopes that have deceived thee:Now thou seest, although too late,Love loves truth which women hate.

Love no more since she is gone,She is gone and loves another:Being once deceived by one,Leave her love but love none other.She was false, bid her adieu,She was best but yet untrue.

Love, farewell, more dear to meThan my life, which thou preservest.Life, all joys are gone from thee;Others have what thou deservest.Oh my death doth spring from hence,I must die for her offence.

Die, but yet before thou die,Make her know what she hath gotten,She in whom my hopes did lieNow is changed, I quite forgotten.She is changed, but changèd base,Baser in so vild a place.

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

ColdWinter’s ice is fled and gone,And Summer brags on every tree,The red-breast peeps amidst the throngOf wood-born birds that wanton be:Each one forgets what they have been,And so doth Phyllis, Summer’s queen.

ColdWinter’s ice is fled and gone,

FromJohn Dowland’sFirst Book of Songs or Airs, 1597.

Comeaway! come, sweet Love!The golden morning breaks;All the earth, all the air,Of love and pleasure speaks!Teach thine arms then to embrace,And sweet rosy lips to kiss,And mix our souls in mutual bliss.Eyes were made for beauty’s graceViewing, ruing, love’s long pain;Procured by beauty’s rude disdain.Come away![3]come, sweet Love!The golden morning wastesWhile the sun from his sphereHis fiery arrows casts:Making all the shadows fly,Playing, staying in the groveTo entertain the stealth of love.Thither, sweet Love, let us hie,Flying, dying in desire,Wing’d with sweet hopes and heavenly fire.Come away! come, sweet Love!Do not in vain adornBeauty’s grace, that should riseLike to our naked morn!Lilies on the river’s side,And fair Cyprian flowers new-blown,Desire no beauties but their own:Ornament is nurse of pride.Pleasure measure[s] love’s delight:Haste then, sweet love, our wishèd flight![3]This stanza is not in the original, but is added inEngland’s Helicon.

Comeaway! come, sweet Love!

Come away![3]come, sweet Love!The golden morning wastesWhile the sun from his sphereHis fiery arrows casts:Making all the shadows fly,Playing, staying in the groveTo entertain the stealth of love.Thither, sweet Love, let us hie,Flying, dying in desire,Wing’d with sweet hopes and heavenly fire.

Come away! come, sweet Love!Do not in vain adornBeauty’s grace, that should riseLike to our naked morn!Lilies on the river’s side,And fair Cyprian flowers new-blown,Desire no beauties but their own:Ornament is nurse of pride.Pleasure measure[s] love’s delight:Haste then, sweet love, our wishèd flight!

[3]This stanza is not in the original, but is added inEngland’s Helicon.

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

Come, O come, my life’s delight!Let me not in languor pine!Love loves no delay; thy sightThe more enjoyed, the more divine!O come, and take from meThe pain of being deprived of thee!Thou all sweetness dost enclose,Like a little world of bliss;Beauty guards thy looks, the roseIn them pure and eternal is:Come, then, and make thy flightAs swift to me as heavenly light!

Come, O come, my life’s delight!Let me not in languor pine!Love loves no delay; thy sightThe more enjoyed, the more divine!O come, and take from meThe pain of being deprived of thee!

Come, O come, my life’s delight!

Thou all sweetness dost enclose,Like a little world of bliss;Beauty guards thy looks, the roseIn them pure and eternal is:Come, then, and make thy flightAs swift to me as heavenly light!

FromThomas Ford’sMusic of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

Come, Phyllis, come into these bowers:Here shelter is from sharpest showers,Cool gales of wind breathe in these shades,Danger none this place invades;Here sit and note the chirping birdsPleading my love in silent words.Come, Phyllis, come, bright heaven’s eyeCannot upon thy beauty pry;Glad Echo in distinguished voiceNaming thee will here rejoice;Then come and hear her merry laysCrowning thy name with lasting praise.

Come, Phyllis, come into these bowers:

Come, Phyllis, come, bright heaven’s eyeCannot upon thy beauty pry;Glad Echo in distinguished voiceNaming thee will here rejoice;Then come and hear her merry laysCrowning thy name with lasting praise.

FromJohn Wilbye’sSecond Set of Madrigals, 1609.

Come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing,Now sigh and groan!Dead is my Love, my Hope, my Joy, my Spring;Dead, dead, and gone!O, She that was your Summer’s Queen,Your days’ delight,Is gone and will no more be seen;O, cruel spite!Break all your pipes that wont to soundWith pleasant cheer,And cast yourselves upon the groundTo wail my Dear!Come, shepherd swains, come, nymphs, and all a-rowTo help me cry:Dead is my Love, and, seeing She is so,Lo, now I die!

Come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing,

FromTwo Books of Airs, byThomas Campion(circ. 1613).

Come, you pretty false-eyed wanton,Leave your crafty smiling!Think you to escape me nowWith slipp’ry words beguiling?No; you mocked me th’ other day;When you got loose, you fled away;But, since I have caught you now,I’ll clip your wings for flying:Smoth’ring kisses fast I’ll heapAnd keep you so from crying.Sooner may you count the starsAnd number hail down-pouring,Tell the osiers of the Thames,Or Goodwin sands devouring,Than the thick-showered kisses hereWhich now thy tired lips must bear.Such a harvest never wasSo rich and full of pleasure,But ’tis spent as soon as reaped,So trustless is lore’s treasure.

Come, you pretty false-eyed wanton,

Sooner may you count the starsAnd number hail down-pouring,Tell the osiers of the Thames,Or Goodwin sands devouring,Than the thick-showered kisses hereWhich now thy tired lips must bear.Such a harvest never wasSo rich and full of pleasure,But ’tis spent as soon as reaped,So trustless is lore’s treasure.

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

Couldmy heart more tongues employThan it harbours thoughts of grief,It is now so far from joyThat it scarce could ask relief:Truest hearts by deeds unkindTo despair are most inclined.Happy minds that can redeemTheir engagements how they please,That no joys or hopes esteemHalf so precious as their ease:Wisdom should prepare men so,As if they did all foreknow.Yet no art or caution canGrown affections easily change;Use is such a lord of manThat he brooks worst what is strange:Better never to be blestThan to lose all at the best.

Couldmy heart more tongues employThan it harbours thoughts of grief,It is now so far from joyThat it scarce could ask relief:Truest hearts by deeds unkindTo despair are most inclined.

Couldmy heart more tongues employ

Happy minds that can redeemTheir engagements how they please,That no joys or hopes esteemHalf so precious as their ease:Wisdom should prepare men so,As if they did all foreknow.

Yet no art or caution canGrown affections easily change;Use is such a lord of manThat he brooks worst what is strange:Better never to be blestThan to lose all at the best.

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

Crownèdwith flowers I saw fair AmaryllisBy Thyrsis sit, hard by a fount of crystal,And with her hand more white than snow or lilies,On sand she wroteMy faith shall be immortal:And suddenly a storm of wind and weatherBlew all her faith and sand away together.

Crownèdwith flowers I saw fair Amaryllis

FromThomas Ravenscroft’sBrief Discourse, 1614.

The Fairies’ Dance.Dareyou haunt our hallow’d green?None but fairies here are seen.Down and sleep,Wake and weep,Pinch him black, and pinch him blue,That seeks to steal a lover true!When you come to hear us sing,Or to tread our fairy ring,Pinch him black, and pinch him blue!O thus our nails shall handle you!

The Fairies’ Dance.

Dareyou haunt our hallow’d green?None but fairies here are seen.Down and sleep,Wake and weep,Pinch him black, and pinch him blue,That seeks to steal a lover true!When you come to hear us sing,Or to tread our fairy ring,Pinch him black, and pinch him blue!O thus our nails shall handle you!

Dareyou haunt our hallow’d green?

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

Dear, if I with guile would gild a true intent,Heaping flatt’ries that in heart were never meant,Easily could I then obtainWhat now in vain I force;Falsehood much doth gain,Truth yet holds the better course.Love forbid that through dissembling I should thrive,Or, in praising you, myself of truth deprive!Let not your high thoughts debaseA simple truth in me;Great is Beauty’s grace,Truth is yet as fair as she.Praise is but the wind of pride if it exceeds,Wealth prized in itself no outward value needs:Fair you are, and passing fair;You know it, and ’tis true;Yet let none despairBut to find as fair as you.

Dear, if I with guile would gild a true intent,

Love forbid that through dissembling I should thrive,Or, in praising you, myself of truth deprive!Let not your high thoughts debaseA simple truth in me;Great is Beauty’s grace,Truth is yet as fair as she.

Praise is but the wind of pride if it exceeds,Wealth prized in itself no outward value needs:Fair you are, and passing fair;You know it, and ’tis true;Yet let none despairBut to find as fair as you.

FromJohn Dowland’sFirst Book of Songs or Airs, 1597.

Dear, if you change, I’ll never choose again;Sweet, if you shrink, I’ll never think of love;Fair, if you fail, I’ll judge all beauty vain;Wise, if too weak, more wits I’ll never prove.Dear, sweet, fair, wise! change, shrink, nor be not weak;And, on my faith, my faith shall never break.Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn;Heaven her bright stars through earth’s dim globe shall move;Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born;Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove:Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view,Ere I prove false to faith or strange to you.

Dear, if you change, I’ll never choose again;

Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn;Heaven her bright stars through earth’s dim globe shall move;Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born;Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove:Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view,Ere I prove false to faith or strange to you.

FromThomas Morley’sCanzonets, 1593.

Doyou not know how Love lost first his seeing?Because with me once gazingOn those fair eyes where all powers have their being,She with her beauty blazing,Which death might have revivèd,Him of his sight and me of heart deprivèd.

Doyou not know how Love lost first his seeing?

FromJohn Wilbye’sSecond Set of Madrigals, 1609.

Drawon, sweet Night, best friend unto those caresThat do arise from painful melancholy;My life so ill through want of comfort fares,That unto thee I consecrate it wholly.Sweet Night, draw on; my griefs, when they be toldTo shades and darkness, find some ease from paining;And while thou all in silence dost enfold,I then shall have best time for my complaining.

Drawon, sweet Night, best friend unto those caresThat do arise from painful melancholy;My life so ill through want of comfort fares,That unto thee I consecrate it wholly.

Drawon, sweet Night, best friend unto those cares

Sweet Night, draw on; my griefs, when they be toldTo shades and darkness, find some ease from paining;And while thou all in silence dost enfold,I then shall have best time for my complaining.

FromHenry Youll’sCanzonets to three Voices, 1608.

Eachday of thine, sweet month of May,Love makes a solemn holyday:I will perform like duty,Since thou resemblest every wayAstræa, Queen of Beauty.

Eachday of thine, sweet month of May,

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

Everydame affects good fame, whate’er her doings be,But true praise is Virtue’s bays, which none may wear but she.Borrowed guise fits not the wise, a simple look is best;Native grace becomes a face though ne’er so rudely drest.Now such new-found toys are sold these women to disguise,That before the year grows old the newest fashion dies.Dames of yore contended more in goodness to exceed,Than in pride to be envied for that which least they need.Little lawn then serve[d] the Pawn, if Pawn at all there were;Homespun thread and household bread then held out all the year.But th’ attires of women now wear out both house and land;That the wives in silk may flow, at ebb the good men stand.Once again, Astræa! then from heaven to earth descend,And vouchsafe in their behalf these errors to amend.Aid from heaven must make all even, things are so out of frame;For let man strive all he can, he needs must please his dame.Happy man, content that gives and what he gives enjoys!Happy dame, content that lives and breaks no sleep for toys!

Everydame affects good fame, whate’er her doings be,

Dames of yore contended more in goodness to exceed,Than in pride to be envied for that which least they need.Little lawn then serve[d] the Pawn, if Pawn at all there were;Homespun thread and household bread then held out all the year.But th’ attires of women now wear out both house and land;That the wives in silk may flow, at ebb the good men stand.

Once again, Astræa! then from heaven to earth descend,And vouchsafe in their behalf these errors to amend.Aid from heaven must make all even, things are so out of frame;For let man strive all he can, he needs must please his dame.Happy man, content that gives and what he gives enjoys!Happy dame, content that lives and breaks no sleep for toys!

FromFarmer’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

FairPhyllis I saw sitting all alone,Feeding her flock near to the mountain-side;The shepherds knew not whither she was gone,But after her lover Amyntas hied.Up and down he wandered, whilst she was missing;When he found her, oh then they fell a-kissing!

FairPhyllis I saw sitting all alone,

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

Farewell, false Love, the oracle of lies,A mortal foe and enemy to rest,An envious boy from whom all cares arise,A bastard vile, a beast with rage possest;A way of error, a temple full of treason,In all effects contrary unto reason.A poison’d serpent cover’d all with flowers,Mother of sighs and murderer of repose;A sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showersAs moisture lend to every grief that grows;A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,A gilded hook that holds a poison’d bait.A fortress foiled which Reason did defend,A Siren song, a fever of the mind,A maze wherein affection finds no end,A raging cloud that runs before the wind;A substance like the shadow of the sun,A goal of grief for which the wisest run.A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,A path that leads to peril and mishap,A true retreat of sorrow and despair,An idle boy that sleeps in Pleasure’s lap;A deep distrust of that which certain seems,A hope of that which Reason doubtful deems.

Farewell, false Love, the oracle of lies,

A poison’d serpent cover’d all with flowers,Mother of sighs and murderer of repose;A sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showersAs moisture lend to every grief that grows;A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,A gilded hook that holds a poison’d bait.

A fortress foiled which Reason did defend,A Siren song, a fever of the mind,A maze wherein affection finds no end,A raging cloud that runs before the wind;A substance like the shadow of the sun,A goal of grief for which the wisest run.

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,A path that leads to peril and mishap,A true retreat of sorrow and despair,An idle boy that sleeps in Pleasure’s lap;A deep distrust of that which certain seems,A hope of that which Reason doubtful deems.

FromThomas Weelkes’Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

Farewell, my joy!Adieu, my love and pleasure!To sport and toyWe have no longer leisure.Fa la la!Farewell, adieuUntil our next consorting!Sweet love, be true!And thus we end our sporting.Fa la la!

Farewell, my joy!Adieu, my love and pleasure!To sport and toyWe have no longer leisure.Fa la la!

Farewell, my joy!

Farewell, adieuUntil our next consorting!Sweet love, be true!And thus we end our sporting.Fa la la!

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

Fineknacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new,Good pennyworths,—but money cannot move:I keep a fair but for the Fair to view,—A beggar may be liberal of love.Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,The heart is true.Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again,My trifles come as treasures from my mind;It is a precious jewel to be plain;Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearls we find:Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!Of me a grain!Within this pack pins, points, laces, and gloves,And divers toys fitting a country fair,But my heart, wherein duty serves and loves,Turtles and twins, court’s brood, a heavenly pair—Happy the heart that thinks of no removes!Of no removes!

Fineknacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new,

Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again,My trifles come as treasures from my mind;It is a precious jewel to be plain;Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearls we find:Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!Of me a grain!

Within this pack pins, points, laces, and gloves,And divers toys fitting a country fair,But my heart, wherein duty serves and loves,Turtles and twins, court’s brood, a heavenly pair—Happy the heart that thinks of no removes!Of no removes!

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

Firethat must flame is with apt fuel fed,Flowers that will thrive in sunny soil are bred:How can a heart feel heat that no hope finds?Or can he love on whom no comfort shines?Fair, I confess there’s pleasure in your sight;Sweet, you have power, I grant, of all delight;But what is all to me if I have none?Churl that you are t’enjoy such wealth alone!Prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you,Yet in your looks a heavenly form I view;Then will I pray again, hoping to find,As well as in your looks, heaven in your mind.Saint of my heart, queen of my life and love,O let my vows thy loving spirit move!Let me no longer mourn through thy disdain,But with one touch of grace cure all my pain!

Firethat must flame is with apt fuel fed,Flowers that will thrive in sunny soil are bred:How can a heart feel heat that no hope finds?Or can he love on whom no comfort shines?

Firethat must flame is with apt fuel fed,

Fair, I confess there’s pleasure in your sight;Sweet, you have power, I grant, of all delight;But what is all to me if I have none?Churl that you are t’enjoy such wealth alone!

Prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you,Yet in your looks a heavenly form I view;Then will I pray again, hoping to find,As well as in your looks, heaven in your mind.

Saint of my heart, queen of my life and love,O let my vows thy loving spirit move!Let me no longer mourn through thy disdain,But with one touch of grace cure all my pain!

FromJohn Wilbye’sFirst Set of English Madrigals, 1598.

Floragave me fairest flowers,None so fair in Flora’s treasure;These I placed on Phyllis’ bowers,She was pleased, and she my pleasure:Smiling meadows seem to say,“Come, ye wantons, here to play.”

Floragave me fairest flowers,

FromCampionandRosseter’sBook of Airs, 1601.

Followyour saint, follow with accents sweet!Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move,And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:But, if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne’er return again.All that I sang still to her praise did tend,Still she was first, still she my songs did end;Yet she my love and music both doth fly,The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy:Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.

Followyour saint, follow with accents sweet!

All that I sang still to her praise did tend,Still she was first, still she my songs did end;Yet she my love and music both doth fly,The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy:Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.

FromRobert Jones’First Book of Airs, 1601.

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