Lyrics, Elegies, &c. from Madrigals, Canzonets, &c. John Dowland, Bachelor of Music, &c., Lutenist to the Lord Walden. A Pilgrim's Solace 1612.
Reading edition
To the Right Honourable THEOPHILUS, Lord WALDEN, SON AND HEIR TO THE MOST NOBLE THOMAS, Baron of WALDEN, Earl of SUFFOLK, Lord Chamberlain of His Majesty's Household, Knight of the most noble Order of the Garter, and one of His Majesty's most honourable Privy Council.
Most honoured Lord,
As to excel in any quality is very rare, so is it a hard thing to find out those that favour Virtue and Learning: but such being found, men of judgement are drawn (I know not by what sympathy) to love and honour them, as the Saints and Sovereigns of their affections and devices. Wherefore, most worthy Lord! your Honour, being of all men noted (as natural born heir of your most renowned father and mother) to be the only and alone Supporter of goodness and excellency: [and] known to none better (unless I should be the most ungrateful of all others!) than myself; who am held up only by your gracious hand. For which, I can shew no other means of thankfulness than these simple fruits of my poor endeavours, which I most humbly present as a public pledge from a true and devoted heart; hoping hereafter to perform something, wherein I shall shew myself more worthy of your honourable service.
In the meantime, you shall have a poor man's prayers for your Lordship's continual health, and daily increase of honour.
Your Honour's humble servant,
JOHN DOWLAND.
To the Reader. Worthy Gentlemen, and my loving Countrymen,
Moved by your many and foretasted courtesies, I am constrained to appear again unto you. True it is, I have lien long obscured from your sight, because I received a Kingly entertainment in a foreign climate, which could not attain to any (though never so mean [a]) place at home. Yet have I held up my head within this horizon, and not altogether been affected elsewhere; since some part of my poor labours have found favour in the greatest part of Europe, and been printed in eight most famous cities beyond the seas, viz.: Paris, Antwerp, Cologne, Nuremburg, Frankfort, Leipsic, Amsterdam, and Hamburg; yea, and some of them also authorised under the Emperor's royal privilege.
Yet I must tell you, as I have been a stranger, so have I again found strange entertainment since my return: especially, by the opposition of two sorts of people that shroud themselves under the titles of Musicians.
The first are some simple Cantors or vocal singers; who, though they seem excellent in their blind Division-making, are merely ignorant, even in the first elements of Music; and also in the true order of the mutation of the Hexachord in the System, which hath been approved by all the learned and skilful men of Christendom, these 800 years. Yet do these fellows give their verdict of me behind my back; and say, [that] what I do "is after the old manner." But I will speak openly to them, and would have them know, that the proudest Cantor of them dares not oppose himself face to face against me.
The second are young men, professors of the Lute, who vaunt themselves to the disparagement of such as have been before their time (wherein I myself am a party), that there never was the like of them. To these men I say little, because of my love and hope to see some deeds ensue [from] their brave words. And also [it] being that, here, under their own noses, hath been published a book in defence of the Viol de Gamba; wherein not only all other the best and principal instruments have been abased, but especially the Lute by name. The words, to satisfy thee, Reader! I have here thought good to insert; and are as followeth: "From henceforth, the stately instrument Gambo Viol shall with ease yield full, various, and deviceful music as the Lute: for here I protest the trinity of music—Parts, Passion, and Division—to be as gracefully united in the Gambo Viol, as in the most received instrument that is," &c. Which imputation, methinks, the learneder sort of musicians ought not to let pass unanswered.
Moreover there are here, and daily doth come into our most famous kingdom, divers strangers from beyond the seas, which aver before our own faces, that we have no true method of application or fingering of the Lute.
Now if these gallant young Lutenists be such as they would have the world believe (and of which I make no doubt) let them remember that their skill lieth not in their fingers' ends. Cucullus non facit monachum [A hood does not make a monk]. I wish for the honour, therefore, and general benefit of our country, that they would undertake the defence of their Lute profession; seeing that some of them, above other, have most large means, convenient time, and such encouragement as I never knew any have.
Believe me, if any of these objections had been made when those famous men lived, which are now thought worthy of no fame; not derogating from these skilful men present, I dare affirm that these objections had been answered to the full: and I make no doubt but that those few of the former time which live yet (being some of them Bachelors of Music; and others, which assume unto themselves to be no less worthy) will be as forward to preserve their reputation.
Perhaps you will ask me, why I, that have travelled many countries and ought to have some experience, do not undergo this business myself? I answer, that I want ability, being now entered into the fiftieth year of mine age; secondly, I want both means, leisure, and encouragement.
But, gentle Reader! to conclude, though abruptly. This work of mine, which I have here published, containeth such things as I myself have thought well of, as being, in mine opinion, furnished with variety of matter, both of judgement and delight: which willingly I refer to the friendly censure and approbation of the skilful; hoping it will be no less delightful to all in general, than it was pleasing to me in the composition. Farewell.
Your friend,
John Dowland.
Lyrics, Elegies, &c. from Madrigals, Canzonets, &c.
A Pilgrim's Solace.
Disdain me still, that I may ever love! For who his Love enjoys, can love no more. The war once past, with ease men cowards prove. And ships returned, do rot upon the shore. And though thou frown, I'll say "Thou art most fair! And still I'll love! though still I must despair." As Heat to Life, so is Desire to Love: And these once quenched, both life and love are gone; Let not my sighs nor tears thy virtue move! Like baser metals, do not melt too soon! Laugh at my woes, although I ever mourn! Love surfeits with Reward! his nurse is Scorn!
To my worthy friend Master William Jewel, of Exeter College in Oxford.
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 die, And perish in their infancy! Dear! let me die in this fair breast! Far sweeter than the Phœnix nest. Love! raise Desire by his sweet charms, Within this circle of thine arms! And let thy blissful kisses cherish Mine infant joys! that else must perish!
To ask for all thy love, and thy whole heart, 'twere madness! I do not sue Nor can admit, Fairest! from you To have all! Yet who giveth all, hath nothing to impart but sadness! He that receiveth all, can have no more than seeing. My love, by length Of every hour, Gathers new strength! New growth! new flower! You must have daily new rewards in store, still being. You cannot, every day, give me your heart for merit! Yet, if you will, When yours doth go, You shall have still One to bestow! For you shall mine, when yours doth part, inherit! Yet, if you please, I'll find a better way, than change them. For so, alone, Dearest! we shall Be one! and one Another's all! Let us so join our hearts, that nothing may estrange them!
Love! those beams that breed, all day long breed and feed this burning, Love! I quench with floods, floods of tears, nightly tears and morning. But, alas, tears cool this fire in vain! The more I quench, the more there doth remain! I'll go to the woods, and alone make my moan, O cruel! For I am deceived and bereaved of my life! my jewel! O but in the woods, though Love be blind, He hath his spies, my secret haunts to find. Love, then I must yield to thy might! might and spite oppressed, Since I see my wrongs (woe is me!) cannot be redressed. Come at last! Be friendly, Love, to me! And let me not endure this misery!
Shall I strive with words to move! when deeds receive not due regard? Shall I speak! and neither please, nor be freely heard? All woes have end; though awhile delayed, our patience proving. O that Time's strange effects could make her loving! I wooed her, I loved her, and none but her admire. O come, dear Joy! and answer my Desire! Grief, alas, though all in vain, her restless anguish must reveal! She alone my wound shall know, though she will not heal! Storms calm at last! and why may not she leave off frowning? O sweet Love! help her hands, my affection crowning! I wooed her, I loved her, and none but her admire. O come, dear Joy! and answer my Desire!
Were every thought an eye, and all those eyes could see; Her subtle wiles, their sights would beguile and mock their jealousy! Desire lives in her heart, Diana in her eyes! 'Twere vain, to wish women true! 'tis well, if they prove wise! Such a love deserves more grace, Than a truer heart that hath no conceit To make use both of time and place, When a wit had need of all his slight. Her fires do inward burn, but make no outward show! And her delights, amid the dark shades, which none discover, grow! The flower's growth is unseen, yet every day it grows! So where her Fancy is set, it grows! but how, none knows. Such a love deserves more grace, Than a truer heart, that hath not conceit To make use both of time and place, When a wit had need of all his slight.
Stay Time, awhile, thy flying! Stay, and pity me dying! For Fates and friends have left me, And of comfort bereft me. Come! come, close mine eyes! Better to die blessed, Than to live thus distressed! To whom shall I complain me, When thus friends do disdain me? 'Tis Time that must befriend me! Drowned in sorrow to end me. Come! come, close mine eyes! Better to die blessed, Than to live thus distressed! Tears but augment this fuel. I feed by night (O cruel!). Light griefs can speak their pleasure. Mine are dumb, passing measure! Quick! quick, close mine eyes! Better to die blessed, Than here to live distressed!
Tell me, True Love! where shall I seek thy being? In thoughts or words, in vows or promise making? In reasons, looks, or Passions never seeing? In men on earth, or women's minds partaking? Thou canst not die! and therefore, living, tell me, Where is thy seat? Why doth this Age expel thee? When thoughts are still unseen, and words disguised; Vows are not sacred held, nor promise debt; By Passion, Reason's glory is surprised; In neither sex is true love firmly set. Thoughts feigned, words false, vows and promise broken, Made True Love fly from earth! This is the token. Mount, then, my thoughts! Here is for thee no dwelling, Since Truth and Falsehood live, like twins, together. Believe not Sense! eyes! ears! touch! taste! or smelling! Both Art and Nature's forced! put trust in neither! One only She, doth True Love, captive bind, In fairest breast, but in a fairer mind. O fairest mind, enriched with Love's residing, Retain the best! In hearts, let some seed fall! Instead of weeds, Love's fruits may have abiding, At harvest, you shall reap increase of all! O happy Love! More happy man, that finds thee, Most happy Saint! that keeps, restores, unbinds thee!
Go, nightly cares! the enemy to rest! Forbear, awhile, to vex my wearied sprite! So long your weight hath lain upon my breast; That lo! I live, of life bereavèd quite. O give me time to draw my wearied breath! Or let me die, as I desire the death! Welcome, sweet Death! O life! no life, a hell! Then thus, and thus, I bid the world, farewell. False World! farewell! the enemy to rest! Now do thy worst! I do not weigh thy spite. Free from thy cares I live for ever blest, Enjoying peace and heavenly true delight. Delight, whom woes nor sorrows shall amate, Nor fears or tears disturb her happy state, And thus I leave thy hopes, thy joys untrue, And thus, and thus, vain World! again, adieu!
To my loving countryman, Master John Forster, the younger, Merchant of Dublin in Ireland.
From silent night, true register of moans; From saddest soul, consumed with deepest sins; From heart, quite rent with sighs and heavy groans; My wailing Muse her woful work begins, And to the world, brings tunes of sad Despair, Sounding nought else but Sorrow, Grief, and Care. Sorrow, to see my sorrow's cause augmented, And yet less sorrowful were my sorrows more; Grief, that my grief with grief is not prevented, For grief it must ease my grieved sore. Thus Grief and Sorrow care but how to grieve, For Grief and Sorrow must my Care relieve. If any eye therefore can spare a tear, To fill the well-spring that must wet my cheeks, O let that eye, to this sad feast draw near! Refuse me not, my humble soul beseeks! For all the tears mine eyes have ever wept, Were now too little, had they all been kept.
My Heart and Tongue were Twins, at once conceived. Th' eldest was my Heart, born dumb by destiny, The last, my Tongue, of all sweet thoughts bereaved: Yet strung and tuned to play Heart's harmony. Both knit in one, and yet asunder placed: What Heart would speak, the Tongue doth still discover; What Tongue doth speak, is of the Heart embraced, And both are one to make a new found lover. New found, and only found in gods and kings, Whose words are deeds, but words nor deeds regarded. Chaste thoughts do mount and fly with swiftest wings! My love with pain, my pain with loss rewarded. Then this be sure! since it is true perfection, That neither men nor gods can force Affection!
A Dialogue.
My merry mates! to Neptune's praise, Your voices high advance! The wat'ry nymphs shall dance, And Æolus shall whistle to your lays. [Master.] Steersman, how stands the wind? Steersman. Full north-north-east. Master. What course? Steersman. Full south-south-west. Master. No worse, and blow so fair, Then sink despair, Come solace to the mind! Ere night, we shall the haven find. O happy days, who may contain But swell with proud disdain When seas are smooth, Sails full, and all things please? The Golden Mean that constant spirit bears! In such extremes, that nor presumes nor fears. Stay, merry mates, proud Neptune lowers! Your voices all deplore you, The nymphs standing weeping o'er you. And Æolus and Iris bandy showers. Master. Boatsman, haul in the boat! Steersman. Hark! hark the ratlings! Master. 'Tis hail! Steersman. Make fast the tacklings! Master. Strike sail! Make quick despatches! Shut close the hatches! Hold stern! cast anchor out! This night we shall at random float. O dismal hours! Who can forbear, But sink with sad despair; When seas are rough, sails rent, and each thing lowers.
Welcome, black Night, Hymen's fair day! Help, Hymen! Love's due debt to pay! Love's due debt is chaste Delight; Which if the Turtles want to night, Hymen forfeits his deity, and night in love her dignity. Hymen! O Hymen! mine of treasures more divine, What deity is like to thee! that freest from mortality? Stay, happy pair! stay but awhile! Hymen comes not, Love to beguile. These sports are alluring baits And sauce are, to Love's sweetest cates: Longing hope doth no hurt but this, It heighten's Love's attainèd bliss! Then stay, most happy! stay awhile! Hymen comes not, Love to beguile.
Cease, cease, cease these false sports! Haste, haste away! Love's made truant, by your stay! Good night! good night, yet virgin Bride! But look (ere day be spied) You change that fruitless name! Lest you your sex defame. Fear not Hymen's peaceful war, You'll conquer, though you subdued are! Good night! and, ere the day be old, Rise to the sun, a marigold! Hymen! O Hymen! bless this night! That Love's dark works may come to light!
THE END OF THE Fourth Volume of An English Garner.
UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, CHILWORTH AND LONDON.