SONGS AND BALLADS
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MY SWETE SWETING
AH, my swete swetyng! My lytyle prety swetyng, My swetyng will I love wherever I go; She is so proper and pure, Full stedfast, stabill and demure, There is none such, ye may be sure, As my swete swetyng.
In all this world, as thynketh me, Is none so pleasant to my eye, That I am glad soe ofte to see, As my swete swetyng.
When I behold my swetyng swete, Her face, her hands, her minion fete, They seme to me there is none so swete, As my swete swetyng.
Above all other prayse must I, And love my pretty pygsnye, For none I fynd so womanly As my swete swetyng.
LORD VAUX
THINKING
WHEN all is done and said, In the end thus shall you find, He most of all doth bathe in bliss That hath a quiet mind: And, clear from worldly cares, To deem can be content The sweetest time in all his life In thinking to be spent.
The body subject is To fickle Fortune's power, And to a million of mishaps Is casual every hour: And Death in time doth change It to a clod of clay; Whenas the mind, which is divine, Runs never to decay.
Companion none is like Unto the mind alone; For many have been harmed by speech Through thinking, few, or none. Fear oftentimes restraineth words, But makes not thought to cease; And he speaks best that hath the skill When for to hold his peace.
Our wealth leaves us at death; Our kinsmen at the grave; But virtues of the mind unto The heavens with us we have. Wherefore, for virtue's sake, I can be well content, The sweetest time of all my life To deem in thinking spent.
RICHARD EDWARDES
THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS
IN going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept; She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, That would not cease, but cried still, in sucking at her breast. She was full weary of her watch, and grieved with her child; She rocked it and rated it, till that on her it smiled: Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write, In register for to remain, of such a worthy wight; As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, Much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat. And proved plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, Could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife: Then kissed she her little babe, and sware by God above, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
She said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright, Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might; When manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no place, Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, And leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout, That might before have lived in peace their time and nature out: Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
She said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt, That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt; Since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed, And force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed; So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
I marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout, To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about; Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can smoothly smile, And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile; Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout, Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out: Thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
SIR THOMAS WYATT
THE LOVER'S LUTE
BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me; For lack of wit the Lute is bound To give such tunes as pleaseth me; Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch my change, Blame not my Lute!
My Lute, alas! doth not offend, Though that perforce he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend To sing to them that heareth me; Then though my songs be somewhat plain, And toucheth some that use to feign, Blame not my Lute!
My Lute and strings may not deny, But as I strike they must obey; Break not them so wrongfully, But wreak thyself some other way; And though the songs which I indite Do quit thy change with rightful spite, Blame not my Lute!
Spite asketh spite, and changing change, And falsed faith must needs be known; The faults so great, the case so strange; Of right it must abroad be blown: Then since that by thine own desert My songs do tell how true thou art, Blame not my Lute!
Blame but thyself that hast misdone, And well deserved to have blame; Change thou thy way, so evil begone, And then my Lute shall sound that same; But if till then my fingers play, By thy desert their wonted way, Blame not my Lute!
Farewell! unknown; for though thou break My strings in spite with great disdain, Yet have I found out for thy sake, Strings for to string my Lute again: And if perchance this silly rhyme Do make thee blush at any time, Blame not my Lute!
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
COME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.
JOHN STILL
JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD
I CANNOT eat but little meat, My stomach is not good; But sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a-cold; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old.
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire; A little bread shall do me stead, Much bread I not desire, No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold; I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd Of jolly good ale and old.
And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she till ye may see The tears run down her cheek. Then doth she trowl to me the bowl Even as a maltworm should, And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old.'
Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to; And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily troll'd, God save the lives of them and their wives Whether they be young or old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old.
NICHOLAS BRETON
PHILLIDA AND CORYDON
IN the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing Forth I went forsooth a-maying.
When anon by a wood side, Where, as May was in his pride, I espied, all alone, Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot! He would love, and she would not, She said, never man was true: He says none was false to you;
He said he had lov'd her long; She says love should have no wrong, Corydon would kiss her then; She says, maids must kiss no men,
Till they do for good and all, When she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth, Never lov'd a truer youth.
Then with many a pretty oath, Yea and nay, faith and troth, Such as silly shepherds use, When they will not love abuse;
Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded; And Phillida with garlands gay Was made the lady of May.
THOMAS NASH
SPRING
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring! the sweet Spring!
SIR EDWARD DYER
MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS
My mind to me a kingdom is, Such perfect joy therein I find, That it excels all other bliss That God or nature hath assigned: Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
No princely port, nor wealthy store, Nor force to win a victory; No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to win a loving eye; To none of these I yield as thrall, For why, my mind despise them all.
I see that plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soonest fall; I see that such as are aloft, Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares my mind can never bear.
I press to bear no haughty sway; I wish no more than may suffice; I do no more than well I may, Look what I want, my mind supplies; Lo, thus I triumph like a king, My mind's content with any thing.
I laugh not at another's loss, Nor grudge not at another's gain; No worldly waves my mind can toss; I brook that is another's bane; I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.
My wealth is health and perfect ease, And conscience clear my chief defence, I never seek by bribes to please, Nor by desert to give offence; Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all do so as well as I!
JAMES SHIRLEY
DEATH THE LEVELLER
THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
THOMAS HEYWOOD
YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING
Yz, little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: —Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.
O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.
PACK CLOUDS, AWAY
PACK clouds, away, and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing! To give my Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast! Sing, birds, in every furrow! And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow, You pretty elves, among yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow! Sing, birds, in every furrow!
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER
SLEEP
COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving Lock me in delight awhile; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies; that from thence I may feel an influence All my powers of care bereaving!
Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Let me know some little joy! We that suffer long annoy Are contented with a thought Through an idle fancy wrought: O let my joys have some abiding!
SONG TO PAN
ALL ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes, Move your feet To our sound, Whilst we greet, All this ground, With his honour and his name That defends our flocks from blame.
He is great and he is just, He is ever good, and must Thus be honoured. Daffodillies, Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, Let us fling, Whilst we sing, Ever holy, Ever holy, Ever honoured, ever young! Thus great Pan is ever sung.
ASPATIA'S SONG
LAY a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!
JOHN FLETCHER
BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR
BEAUTY clear and fair, Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose, And come to honour nothing else:
Where to live near And planted there Is to live, and still live new; Where to gain a favour is More than light, perpetual bliss— Make me live by serving you!
Dear, again back recall To this light, A stranger to himself and all! Both the wonder and the story Shall be yours, and eke the glory; I am your servant, and your thrall.
LET THE BELLS RING, AND LET THE BOYS SING
LET the bells ring, and let the boys sing, The young lasses skip and play; Let the cups go round, till round goes the ground, Our learned old vicar will stay.
Let the pig turn merrily, merrily, ah And let the fat goose swim; For verily, verily, verily, oh! Our vicar this day shall be trim.
The stewed cock shall crow, cock-a-loodle-loo, A loud cock-a-loodle shall he crow; The duck and the drake shall swim in a lake Of onions and claret below.
Our wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat To thee our most noble adviser; Our pains shall be great, and bottles shall sweat, And we ourselves will be wiser.
We'll labour and smirk, we'll kiss and we'll drink, And tithes shall come thicker and thicker; We'll fall to our plough, and have children enow, And thou shalt be learned old vicar.
WEEP NO MORE
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone: Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. Joys as winged dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.
PAN
SING his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm, Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound.
Pan, O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing! Thou who keep'st us chaste and free As the young spring: Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the morn is broke, To that place day doth unyoke!
GOD LYAEUS
GOD LYAEUS, ever young, Ever honour'd, ever sung, Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, In a thousand lusty shapes Dance upon the mazer's brim, In the crimson liquor swim; From thy plenteous hand divine Let a river run with wine: God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear.
A BATTLE-SONG
ARM, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. Behold from yonder hill the foe appears; Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring; O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring! The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums! Dub, dub!
They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes: See how the arrows fly That darken all the sky! Hark how the trumpets sound! Hark how the hills rebound— Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara!
Hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in! The battle totters; now the wounds begin: O how they cry! O how they die! Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder! See how he breaks the ranks asunder! They fly! they fly! Eumenes has the chase, And brave Polybius makes good his place: To the plains, to the woods, To the rocks, to the floods, They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow! Hark how the soldiers hollow! Hey, hey!
Brave Diodes is dead, And all his soldiers fled; The battle 's won, and lost, That many a life hath cost.
ANONYMOUS
MY LADY GREENSLEEVES
ALAS! my love, you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously; And I have loved you so long, Delighting in your company.
Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves!
I bought thee petticoats of the best, The cloth so fine as fine as might be; I gave thee jewels for thy chest, And all this cost I spent on thee. Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves!
Thy smock of silk, both fair and white, With gold embroidered gorgeously; Thy petticoat of sendal right: And these I bought thee gladly. Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves!
Greensleeves now farewell! adieu! God I pray to prosper thee! For I am still thy lover true: Come once again and love me! Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves!
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
MY TRUE LOVE
MY true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for another given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a better bargain driven: My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
JOHN WEBSTER
DIRGE
CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
THE SHROUDING
HARK! now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud!
Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay's now competent: A long war disturb'd your mind; Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? Sin their conception, their birth weeping, Their life a general mist of error, Their death a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet, And—the foul fiend more to check— A crucifix let bless your neck; 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; End your groan and come away.
THOMAS DEKKER
CONTENT
ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet content! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king! O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
TROLL THE BOWL
COLD's the wind, and wet's the rain, Saint Hugh be our good speed! Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, Nor helps good hearts in need.
Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, And here, kind mate, to thee! Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, And down it merrily.
Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, Hey derry derry down-a-down. Ho! well done, to let me come, Ring compass, gentle joy!
Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, And here, kind mate, to thee! Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, And down it merrily.
Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, Saint Hugh be our good speed! Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, Nor helps good hearts in need.
ANONYMOUS
SIR PATRICK SPENS
THE king sits in Dunfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine; Oh whare will I get a gude sailor, To sail this ship o' mine?'
Then up and spake an eldern knight Sat at the king's right knee; 'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea.'
The king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it wi' his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens Was walking on the strand.
'To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis thou maun tak' her hame.'
The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud laugh laughed he; The neist line that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his ee.
'O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out at this time o' the year, To sail upon the sea?'
'Be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet, Our ship maun sail the faem; The king's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis we maun tak' her hame.'
They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; And they hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say—
'Ye Scotisman spend a' our king's gowd, And a' our queenis fee.' 'Ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud, Sae loud 's I hear ye lee!'
'For I brought as much o' the white monie As gane my men and me, And a half-fou o' the gude red gowd, Out owre the sea with me.
'Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a', Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'O say na sae, my master dear, I fear a deadlie storm.
'I saw the new moon late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm!'
They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap, It was sic a deadlie storm; And the waves cam' owre the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn.
'O whare will I get a gude sailor Will tak' the helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall tap-mast, To see if I can spy land.'
'O here am I, a sailor gude, To tak' the helm in hand, Till ye get up to the tall tap-mast, But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land.'
He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out o' the gude ship's side, And the saut sea it cam in.
'Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And wap them into our gude ship's side, And letna the sea come in.'
They fetch'd a wab o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And they wapp'd them into the gude ship's side, But aye the sea cam' in.
O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sons To weet their coal-black shoon, But lang ere a' the play was play'd, They wat their hats abune.
And mony was the feather-bed That fluttered on the faem, And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam' hame.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand.
And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Wi' the gowd kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves, For them they'll see nae mair.
Half owre, half owre to Aberdour 'Tis fifty fathom deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.