LYRICS FROM ELIZABETHAN SONG-BOOKS. (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet, come again! Your happy sight, so much desired Since you from hence are now retired, I seek in vain: Still I must mourn, And pine in longing pain, Till you, my life’s delight, again Vouchsafe your wish’d return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Kate Of late Ran away and left me plaining. Abide! (I cried) Or I die with thy disdaining. Te hee, quoth she; Make no fool of me; Men, I know, have oaths at pleasure, But, their hopes attainèd, They bewray they feignèd, And their oaths are kept at leisure. Unkind, I find Thy delight is in tormenting: Abide! (I cried) Or I die with thy consenting. Te hee, quoth she, Make no fool of me; Men, I know, have oaths at pleasure, But, their hopes attainèd, They bewray they feignèd, And their oaths are kept at leisure. Her words, Like swords, Cut my sorry heart in sunder, Her flouts With doubts Kept my heart-affections under. Te hee, quoth she, What a fool is he Stands in awe of once denying! Cause I had enough To become more rough, So I did—O happy trying!

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

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

Sweet Love, my only treasure, For service long unfeignèd Wherein I nought have gainèd, Vouchsafe this little pleasure, To tell me in what part My Lady keeps her heart. If in her hair so slender, Like golden nets entwinèd Which fire and art have finèd, Her thrall my heart I render For ever to abide With locks so dainty tied. If in her eyes she bind it, Wherein that fire was framèd By which it is inflamèd, I dare not look to find it: I only wish it sight To see that pleasant light. But if her breast have deignèd With kindness to receive it, I am content to leave it Though death thereby were gainèd: Then, Lady, take your own That lives by you alone.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man of life upright, Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds, Or thought of vanity; The man whose silent days In harmless joys are spent, Whom hopes cannot delude Nor sorrow discontent: That man needs neither towers Nor armour for defence, Nor secret vaults to fly From thunder’s violence: He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep And terrors of the skies. Thus scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings, He makes the heaven his book, His wisdom heavenly things; Good thoughts his only friends, His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage.

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

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

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

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

The peaceful western wind The winter storms hath tamed, And Nature in each kind The kind heat hath inflamed: The forward buds so sweetly breathe Out of their earthly bowers, That heaven, which views their pomp beneath, Would fain be decked with flowers.

See how the morning smiles On her bright eastern hill, And with soft steps beguiles Them that lie slumbering still! The music-loving birds are come From cliffs and rocks unknown, To see the trees and briars bloom That late were overthrown.[17]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gat him upon her back And carried him to earthen lake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though your strangeness frets my heart, Yet must I not complain; You persuade me ’tis but art Which 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 retire Whilst 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 hand You’ll swear I hold your heart; Whilst my rival close doth stand And 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 were Or[20] else a secret friend, So much lesser should I fear And 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.

Thrice blessèd be the giver That gave sweet love that golden quiver, And live he long among the gods anointed That made the arrow-heads sharp-pointed: If either of them both had quailèd, She of my love and I of hers had failèd.

Thrice toss 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.

Thus I 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.

Thus saith my Chloris bright When we of love sit down and talk together:— “Beware of Love, dear; Love is a walking sprite, And Love is this and that And, 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.

Thus saith 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.

To his 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 trim That every age yet talks of him And Phœbus’ right revengèd grudge.

To plead 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 aspired Is 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.

To shorten winter’s sadness See where the nymphs with gladness Fa 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 shineth And unto love inclineth. Fa la la!

Toss not 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.

Turn all thy thoughts to eyes, Turn all thy hairs to ears, Change all thy friends to spies And all thy joys to fears; True love will yet be free In spite of jealousy. Turn darkness into day, Conjectures into truth, Believe what th’ envious say, Let age interpret youth: True love will yet be free In 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 free In spite of jealousy.

Unto the 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 desire To 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 sanctuary Why wouldst thou suffer cold disdain To 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.

Upon a hill the bonny boy Sweet Thyrsis sweetly played, And called his lambs their master’s joy, And more he would have said; But love that gives the lover wings Withdrew his mind from other things.

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

Upon a 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 harms If 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.

Vain men! 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 Content Unhappy men in them may never find: Ah! but without them, 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.

Wake, sleepy Thyrsis, wake For Love and Venus’ sake! Come, let us mount the hills Which 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 glide And the green meads divide: But stream nor fire shall part This and this joinèd heart.

We be soldiers three, Pardona moy je vous an pree, Lately come forth of the Low Country With 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.

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

We must 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, where I am not, if that thou be there? True love hath wings, and can as soon Survey the world as sun and moon, And everywhere our triumphs keep O’er absence which makes others weep: By which alone a power is given To live on earth, as they in heaven.

We shepherds sing, we pipe, we play, With pretty sport we pass the day: Fa la! We care for no gold, But with our fold We dance And prance As pleasure would. Fa la!

Wedded to will is witless, And seldom he is skilful That bears the name of wise and yet is wilful. To govern he is fitless That deals not by election, But by his fond affection. O that it might be treason For men to rule by will and not by reason.

Weep no 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. If she smiles, he dancing goes, And thinks not on his future woes: If she chide 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.

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

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

Were I 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.

Were my 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.

What hap 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.

What is our life? a play of passion: Our mirth? the music of division. Our mothers’ wombs the tyring-houses be Where we are drest for this short comedy: Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is That 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.

What needeth all this travail and turmoiling, Short’ning the life’s sweet pleasure To seek this far-fetched treasure In those hot climates under Phœbus broiling? O fools, can you not see a traffic nearer In my sweet lady’s face, where Nature showeth Whatever treasure eye sees or heart knoweth? Rubies and diamonds dainty And orient pearls such plenty, Coral and ambergreece sweeter and dearer Than which the South Seas or Moluccas lend us, Or either Indies, East or West, do send us!

What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice Than herdsmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice, And fortune’s fate not fearing Sing sweet in summer morning? Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful, It is to kneel and wait On favourite presumptuous Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. All day their flocks each tendeth; At night, they take their rest; More quiet than who sendeth His 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 meaning Is 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 sufficeth To keep him from the cold. Though poor and plain his diet Yet merry it is, and quiet.

What poor 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 jest Devised by idle heads, To catch young Fancies in the nest, And lay them in fool’s beds; That being hatched in beauty’s eyes They 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 odd And Love is but a feignèd god! But such as will run mad with Will, I cannot clear their sight But leave them to their study still, To look where is no light! Till time too late, we make them try, They study false Astronomy!

What then 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 store Yielding least fruit where most is sown. My daily note shall be therefore— Heigh ho, chil love no more. ’Tis like a morning dewy rose Spread fairly to the sun’s arise, But when his beams he doth disclose That 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 hearts Parched by the summer’s heat before Faint hope to kindly warmth converts. My daily note shall be therefore— Heigh ho, chil love no more.

When Flora fair the pleasant tidings bringeth Of summer sweet with herbs and flowers adornèd, The nightingale upon the hawthorn singeth And 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 invited To walk in meads or row upon the river. I all alone am from these joys exilèd, No summer grows where love yet never smilèd.

When I was otherwise than now I am, I lovèd more but skillèd not so much Fair words and smiles could have contented then, My simple age and ignorance was such: But at the length experience made me wonder That 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 hate Which 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.

When thou 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 love From 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.

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

When younglings 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 he Should 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!

Where most 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 anguish That life, I hope, will soon from body vanish, And to some rest will quickly be conveyèd That on no joy, while so I lived, hath stayèd.

A Mourning-Song for the Death of Sir Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. Where shall a sorrow great enough be sought For this sad ruin which the Fates have wrought, Unless the Fates themselves should weep and wish Their curbless power had been controlled in this? For thy loss, worthiest Lord, no mourning eye Has flood enough; no muse nor elegy Enough expression to thy worth can lend; No, though thy Sidney had survived his friend. Dead, noble Brooke shall be to us a name Of grief and honour still, whose deathless fame Such Virtue purchased as makes us to be Unjust to Nature in lamenting thee; Wailing an old man’s fate as if in pride And heat of Youth he had untimely died.

σκηνὴ πᾶς ὁ βίος, καὶ παίγνιον. Pallad.

Whether men do laugh or weep, Whether they do wake or sleep, Whether they die young or old, Whether they feel heat or cold; There is underneath the sun Nothing in true earnest done. All our pride is but a jest, None are worst and none are best; Grief and joy and hope and fear Play their pageants everywhere: Vain Opinion all doth sway, And the world is but a play. Powers above in clouds do sit, Mocking our poor apish wit, That so lamely with such state Their high glory imitate. No ill can be felt but pain, And that happy men disdain.

While that the sun with his beams hot Scorchèd the fruits in vale and mountain, Philon, the shepherd, late forgot Sitting beside a chrystal fountain In shadow of a green oak-tree, Upon his pipe this song play’d he: Adieu, Love! adieu, Love! untrue Love! Untrue Love, untrue Love! adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. So long as I was in your sight, I was your heart, your soul, your treasure; And evermore you sobb’d and sigh’d, Burning in flames beyond all measure. Three days endured your love for me, And it was lost in other three. Adieu, Love! adieu, Love! untrue Love! Untrue Love, untrue Love! adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. Another shepherd you did see, To whom your heart was soon enchainèd; Full soon your love was leapt from me, Full soon my place he had obtainèd: Soon came a third your love to win; And we were out, and he was in. Adieu, Love! adieu, Love! untrue Love! Untrue Love, untrue Love! adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new Love. Sure, you have made me passing glad That you your mind so soon removèd, Before that I the leisure had To choose you for my best belovèd: For all my love was past and done Two days, before it was begun. Adieu, Love! adieu, Love! untrue Love! Untrue Love, untrue Love! adieu, Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

Whilst youthful sports are lasting, To feasting turn our fasting. Fa la la! With revels and with wassails Make grief and care our vassals. Fa la la! For youth it well beseemeth That pleasure he esteemeth. Fa la la! And sullen age is hated That mirth would have abated. Fa la la!

White as lilies was her face: When she smilèd She beguilèd, Quitting faith with foul disgrace. Virtue’s service thus neglected. Heart with sorrows hath infected. When I swore my heart her own, She disdainèd; I complainèd, Yet she left me overthrown: Careless of my bitter grieving, Ruthless, bent to no relieving. Vows and oaths and faith assured, Constant ever, Changing never,— Yet she could not be procured To believe my pains exceeding From her scant respect proceeding. O that love should have the art, By surmises, And disguises, To destroy a faithful heart; Or that wanton-looking women Should reward their friends as foemen. All in vain is ladies’ love— Quickly choosèd. Shortly loosèd; For their pride is to remove. Out, alas! their looks first won us, And their pride hath straight undone us. To thyself, the sweetest Fair! Thou hast wounded, And confounded Changeless faith with foul despair; And my service hast envièd And my succours hast denièd. By thine error thou hast lost Heart unfeignèd, Truth unstainèd. And the swain that lovèd most, More assured in love than many, Move despised in love than any. For my heart, though set at nought, Since you will it, Spoil and kill it! I will never change my thought: But grieve that beauty e’er was born Thus to answer love with scorn.

Whither so fast? see how the kindly flowers Perfume the air, and all to make thee stay: The climbing wood-bine, clipping all these bowers, Clips thee likewise for fear thou pass away; Fortune our friend, our foe will not gainsay. Stay but awhile, Phœbe no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I’ll my Phœbe kiss. Fear not, the ground seeks but to kiss thy feet; Hark, hark, how Philomela sweetly sings! Whilst water-wanton fishes as they meet Strike crotchet time amidst these crystal springs, And Zephyrus amongst the leaves sweet murmur rings. Stay but awhile, Phœbe no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I’ll my Phœbe kiss. See how the helitrope, herb of the sun, Though he himself long since be gone to bed, Is not of force thine eye’s bright beams to shun, But with their warmth his goldy leaves unspread, And on my knee invites thee rest thy head. Stay but awhile, Phœbe no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I’ll my Phœbe kiss.

Who likes to love, let him take heed! And wot you why? Among the gods it is decreed That Love shall die; And every wight that takes his part Shall forfeit each a mourning heart. The cause is this, as I have heard: A sort of dames, Whose beauty he did not regard Nor secret flames, Complained before the gods above That gold corrupts the god of love. The gods did storm to hear this news, And there they swore, That sith he did such dames abuse He should no more Be god of love, but that he should Both die and forfeit all his gold. His bow and shafts they took away Before his eyes, And gave these dames a longer day For to devise Who should them keep, and they be bound That love for gold should not be found. These ladies striving long, at last They did agree To give them to a maiden chaste, Whom I did see, Who with the same did pierce my breast: Her beauty’s rare, and so I rest.

1. Who made thee, Hob, forsake the plough And fall in love? 2. Sweet beauty, which hath power to bow The gods above. 1. What dost thou serve? 2. A shepherdess; One such as hath no peer, I guess. 1. What is her name who bears thy heart Within her breast? 2. Silvana fair, of high desert, Whom I love best. 1. O, Hob, I fear she looks too high. 2. Yet love I must, or else I die.

Who prostrate lies at women’s feet. And calls them darlings dear and sweet; Protesting love, and craving grace, And praising oft a foolish face; Are oftentimes deceived at last, Then catch at nought and hold it fast.

Who would have thought that face of thine Had been so full of doubleness, Or that within those crystal eyn Had been so much unstableness? Thy face so fair, thy look so strange! Who would have thought of such a change?

Why are you Ladies staying, And your Lords gone a-maying? Run apace and meet them And with your garlands greet them. ’Twere pity they should miss you, For they will sweetly kiss you.

Wilt thou, Unkind! thus ’reave me Of my heart and so leave me? Farewell! But yet, or ere I part, O Cruel, Kiss me, Sweet, my Jewel! Farewell! Hope by disdain grows cheerless, Fear doth love, love doth fear; Beauty peerless, Farewell! If no delays can move thee, Life shall die, death shall live Still to love thee. Farewell! Yet be thou mindful ever! Heat from fire, fire from heat, None can sever. Farewell! True love cannot be changèd, Though delight from desert Be estrangèd. Farewell!

Wise men patience never want, Good men pity cannot hide; Feeble spirits only vaunt Of revenge, the poorest pride: He alone forgive that can Bears the true soul of a man. Some there are debate that seek, Making trouble their content; Happy if they wrong the meek, Vex them that to peace are bent: Such undo the common tie Of mankind, Society. Kindness grown is lately cold, Conscience hath forgot her part; Blessèd times were known of old Long ere Law became an art: Shame deterred, not statutes then; Honest love was law to men. Deeds from love, and words, that flow, Foster like kind April showers; In the warm sun all things grow, Wholesome fruits and pleasant flowers: All so thrives his gentle rays Whereon human love displays.

Woeful Heart, with grief oppressèd! Since my fortunes most distressèd From my joys hath me removèd, Follow those sweet eyes adorèd! Those sweet eyes wherein are storèd All my pleasures best belovèd. Fly my breast—leave me forsaken— Wherein Grief his seat hath taken, All his arrows through me darting! Thou mayst live by her sunshining: I shall suffer no more pining By thy loss than by her parting.

Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes To lovers’ plaints with heart-sore throbs immixed, When as my dear this way her pleasure takes, Tell her with tears how firm my love is fixed; And, Philomel, report my timerous fears, And, echo, sound my heigh-ho’s in her ears: But if she asks if I for love will die, Tell her, Good faith, good faith, good faith,—not I.

You blessèd bowers whose green leaves now are spreading, Shadow the sunshine from my mistress’ face, And you, sweet roses, only for her bedding When weary she doth take her resting-place; You fair white lilies and pretty flowers all, Give your attendance at my mistress’ call.

You that wont to my pipe’s sound Daintily to tread your ground, Jolly shepherds and nymphs sweet, (Lirum, lirum.) Here met together Under the weather, Hand in hand uniting, The lovely god come greet. (Lirum, lirum) Lo, triumphing, brave comes he, All in pomp and majesty, Monarch of the world and king. (Lirum, lirum.) Let whoso list him Dare to resist him, We our voices uniting, Of his high acts will sing. (Lirum, lirum.)

Your shining eyes and golden hair, Your lily-rosèd lips so fair; Your various beauties which excel, Men cannot choose but like them well: Yet when for them they say they’ll die, Believe them not,—they do but lie.