LYRICS FROM ELIZABETHAN SONG-BOOKS.

A little pretty bonny lass was walking In midst of May before the sun gan rise; I took her by the hand and fell to talking Of 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 shepherd in a shade his plaining made Of love and lover’s wrong Unto the fairest lass that trod on grass, And thus began his song: “Since Love and Fortune will, I honour still Your fair and lovely eye: What conquest will it be, sweet Nymph, for thee If I for sorrow die? Restore, restore my heart again Which 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 lie In 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 again Which love by thy sweet looks hath slain, Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing ‘Fie on love! it is a foolish thing.’”

A Sparrow-Hawk proud did hold in wicked jail Music’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 diet To let a thousand such enjoy their quiet.”

A woman’s looks Are barbèd hooks, That catch by art The strongest heart When yet they spend no breath; But let them speak, And sighing break Forth into tears, Their words are spears That wound our souls to death. The rarest wit Is made forget, And like a child Is oft beguiled With love’s sweet-seeming bait; Love with his rod So like a God Commands the mind; We cannot find, Fair shows hide foul deceit. Time, that all things In order brings, Hath taught me how To be more slow In giving faith to speech, Since women’s words No truth affords, And when they kiss They think by this Us men to over-reach.

About the maypole new, with glee and merriment, While as the bagpipe tooted it, Thyrsis and Chloris fine together footed it: And to the joyous instrument Still 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!

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!

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

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 run And weep your last while wantonly she sings; Then if you cannot move her heart to pity, Let Oh, alas, ay me be all your ditty. Arise, my thoughts, no more, if you return Denied of grace which only you desire, But let the sun your wings to ashes burn And 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 star And 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.

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

Ay me, can every rumour Thus 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 man Ever so lovèd woman. Then alas, Love, be wary, For women be contrary.

Ay me, 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 me To weep for her that laughs at thee.

Behold a wonder here! Love hath receiv’d his sight! Which many hundred year Hath not beheld the light. Such beams infusèd be By Cynthia in his eyes, As first have made him see And then have made him wise. Love now no more will weep For them that laugh the while! Nor wake for them that sleep, Nor sigh for them that smile! So powerful is the Beauty That Love doth now behold, As Love is turned to Duty That’s neither blind nor bold. Thus Beauty shows her might To be of double kind; In giving Love his sight And striking Folly blind.

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

By a 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 alone My 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 see Such 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!”

The Urchins’ Dance. By the 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 Elves’ Dance. Round about 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 Courtier’s Good Morrow to his Mistress. Canst thou love and lie alone? Love is so disgracèd, Pleasure is best Wherein is rest In 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.

Change thy mind since she doth change, Let not fancy still abuse thee, Thy untruth cannot seem strange When 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 me Than 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 lie Now is changed, I quite forgotten. She is changed, but changèd base, Baser in so vild a place.

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

Come away! 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 grace Viewing, ruing, love’s long pain; Procured by beauty’s rude disdain.

Come away![3] come, sweet Love! The golden morning wastes While the sun from his sphere His fiery arrows casts: Making all the shadows fly, Playing, staying in the grove To 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 adorn Beauty’s grace, that should rise Like 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!

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

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 birds Pleading my love in silent words. Come, Phyllis, come, bright heaven’s eye Cannot upon thy beauty pry; Glad Echo in distinguished voice Naming thee will here rejoice; Then come and hear her merry lays Crowning thy name with lasting praise.

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 sound With pleasant cheer, And cast yourselves upon the ground To wail my Dear! Come, shepherd swains, come, nymphs, and all a-row To help me cry: Dead is my Love, and, seeing She is so, Lo, now I die!

Come, you pretty false-eyed wanton, Leave your crafty smiling! Think you to escape me now With 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 heap And keep you so from crying. Sooner may you count the stars And number hail down-pouring, Tell the osiers of the Thames, Or Goodwin sands devouring, Than the thick-showered kisses here Which now thy tired lips must bear. Such a harvest never was So rich and full of pleasure, But ’tis spent as soon as reaped, So trustless is lore’s treasure.

Could my heart more tongues employ Than it harbours thoughts of grief, It is now so far from joy That it scarce could ask relief: Truest hearts by deeds unkind To despair are most inclined. Happy minds that can redeem Their engagements how they please, That no joys or hopes esteem Half so precious as their ease: Wisdom should prepare men so, As if they did all foreknow. Yet no art or caution can Grown affections easily change; Use is such a lord of man That he brooks worst what is strange: Better never to be blest Than to lose all at the best.

Crownèd with flowers I saw fair Amaryllis By Thyrsis sit, hard by a fount of crystal, And with her hand more white than snow or lilies, On sand she wrote My faith shall be immortal: And suddenly a storm of wind and weather Blew all her faith and sand away together.

The Fairies’ Dance. Dare you 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!

Dear, if I with guile would gild a true intent, Heaping flatt’ries that in heart were never meant, Easily could I then obtain What 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 debase A 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 despair But to find as fair as you.

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.

Do you not know how Love lost first his seeing? Because with me once gazing On 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.

Draw on, sweet Night, best friend unto those cares That 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 told To 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.

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

Every dame 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!

Fair Phyllis 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!

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 showers As 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, my joy! Adieu, my love and pleasure! To sport and toy We have no longer leisure. Fa la la! Farewell, adieu Until our next consorting! Sweet love, be true! And thus we end our sporting. Fa la la!

Fine knacks 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!

Fire that 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!

Flora gave 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.”

Follow your 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.

οὐκ ἔστι γήμας ὅστις οὐ χειμάζεται, λέγουσι πάντες· καὶ γαμοῦσιν εἰδότες. Anthol. Græc.

Fond wanton youths make love a God Which after proveth Age’s rod; Their youth, their time, their wit, their art They spend in seeking of their smart; And, which of follies is the chief, They woo their woe, they wed their grief. All find it so who wedded are, Love’s sweets, they find, enfold sour care; His pleasures pleasing’st in the eye, Which tasted once with loathing die: They find of follies ’tis the chief, Their woe to woo, to wed their grief. If for their own content they choose Forthwith their kindred’s love they lose; And if their kindred they content, For ever after they repent; O ’tis of all our follies chief, Our woe to woo, to wed our grief. In bed, what strifes are bred by day, Our puling wives do open lay; None friends, none foes we must esteem But whom they so vouchsafe to deem: O ’tis of all our follies chief, Our woe to woo, to wed our grief. Their smiles we want if aught they want, And either we their wills must grant Or die they will, or are with child; Their longings must not be beguiled: O ’tis of all our follies chief, Our woe to woo, to wed our grief. Foul wives are jealous, fair wives false, Marriage to either binds us thrall; Wherefore being bound we must obey And forcèd be perforce to say,— Of all our bliss it is the chief, Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.

From Citheron the warlike boy is fled And smiling sits upon a Virgin’s lap,— Thereby to train poor misers to the trap, Whom Beauty draws with fancy to be fed: And when Desire with eager looks is led, Then from her eyes The arrow flies, Feather’d with flame, arm’d with a golden head. Her careless thoughts are freèd of that flame Wherewith her thralls are scorchèd to the heart: If Love would so, would God the enchanting dart Might once return and burn from whence it came! Not to deface of Beauty’s work the frame, But by rebound It might be found What secret smart I suffer by the same. If Love be just, then just is my desire; And if unjust, why is he call’d a God? O God, O God, O Just! reserve thy rod To chasten those that from thy laws retire! But choose aright (good Love! I thee require) The golden head, Not that of lead! Her heart is frost and must dissolve by fire.

To Master Hugh Holland. From Fame’s desire, from Love’s delight retired, In these sad groves an hermit’s life I lead: And those false pleasures, which I once admired, With sad remembrance of my fall, I dread. To birds, to trees, to earth, impart I this; For she less secret, and as senseless is. O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! O how much do I love your solitariness! Experience which repentance only brings, Doth bid me, now, my heart from Love estrange! Love is disdained when it doth look at Kings; And Love low placèd base and apt to change. There Power doth take from him his liberty, Her[e] Want of Worth makes him in cradle die. O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! O how much do I love your solitariness! You men that give false worship unto Love, And seek that which you never shall obtain; The endless work of Sisyphus you prove, Whose end is this, to know you strive in vain. Hope and Desire, which now your idols be, You needs must lose, and feel Despair with me. O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! O how much do I love your solitariness! You woods, in you the fairest Nymphs have walked: Nymphs at whose sights all hearts did yield to love. You woods, in whom dear lovers oft have talked, How do you now a place of mourning prove? Wanstead! my Mistress saith this is the doom. Thou art love’s child-bed, nursery, and tomb. O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! O how much do I love your solitariness!

Give Beauty all her right! She’s not to one form tied; Each shape yields fair delight Where her perfections bide: Helen, I grant, might pleasing be, And Ros’mond was as sweet as she.

Some the quick eye commends, Some swelling[4] lips and red; Pale looks have many friends, Through sacred sweetness bred: Meadows have flowers that pleasures move, Though roses are the flowers of love.

Free beauty is not bound To one unmovèd clime; She visits every ground And favours every time. Let the old loves with mine compare, My sovereign is as sweet and fair.

Go crystal tears! like to the morning showers, And sweetly weep into thy lady’s breast! And as the dews revive the drooping flowers, So let your drops of pity be addrest! To quicken up the thoughts of my desert, Which sleeps too sound whilst I from her depart. Haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breath Dissolve the ice of her indurate heart! Whose frozen rigour, like forgetful Death, Feels never any touch of my desert. Yet sighs and tears to her I sacrifice Both from a spotless heart and patient eyes.

Go, turn away those cruel eyes, For they have quite undone me; They used not so to tyrannize When first those glances won me. But ’tis the custom of you men,— False men thus to deceive us! To love but till we love again, And then again to leave us. Go, let alone my heart and me, Which thou hast thus affrighted! I did not think I could by thee Have been so ill requited. But now I find ’tis I must prove That men have no compassion; When we are won, you never love Poor women, but for fashion, Do recompense my love with hate, And kill my heart! I’m sure Thou’lt one day say, when ’tis too late, Thou never hadst a truer.

Good men show! if you can tell, Where doth Human Pity dwell? Far and near her I would seek, So vexed with sorrow is my breast. “She,” they say, “to all, is meek; And only makes th’ unhappy blest.” Oh! if such a saint there be, Some hope yet remains for me: Prayer or sacrifice may gain From her implorèd grace, relief; To release me of my pain, Or at the least to ease my grief. Young am I, and far from guile, The more is my woe the while: Falsehood, with a smooth disguise, My simple meaning hath abused: Casting mists before mine eyes, By which my senses are confused. Fair he is, who vowed to me, That he only mine would be; But alas, his mind is caught With every gaudy bait he sees: And, too late, my flame is taught That too much kindness makes men freeze. From me, all my friends are gone, While I pine for him alone; And not one will rue my case, But rather my distress deride: That I think, there is no place, Where Pity ever yet did bide.

Ha ha! ha ha! this world doth pass Most merrily, I’ll be sworn; For many an honest Indian ass Goes for an Unicorn. Farra, diddle dino; This is idle fino. Ty hye! ty hye! O sweet delight! He tickles this age that can Call Tullia’s ape a marmosyte And Leda’s goose a swan. Farra diddle dino; This is idle fino. So so! so so! fine English days! When false play’s no reproach: For he that doth the coachman praise, May safely use the coach. Farra diddle dino; This is idle fino.

Happy he Who, to sweet home retired, Shuns glory so admired, And to himself lives free, Whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skies Falls down with foul disgrace before he rise.

Let who will The active life commend And all his travels bend Earth with his fame to fill: Such fame, so forced, at last dies with his death, Which life maintain’d by others’ idle breath.

My delights, To dearest home confined, Shall there make good my mind Not aw’d with fortune’s spites: High trees heaven blasts, winds shake and honors[5] fell, When lowly plants long time in safety dwell.

All I can, My worldly strife shall be They one day say of me ‘He died a good old man’: On his sad soul a heavy burden lies Who, known to all, unknown to himself dies.

Happy, O! happy he, who not affecting The endless toils attending worldly cares, With mind reposed, all discontents rejecting, In silent peace his way to heaven prepares, Deeming this life a scene, the world a stage Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.

Have I found her? O rich finding! Goddess-like for to behold, Her fair tresses seemly binding In a chain of pearl and gold. Chain me, chain me, O most fair, Chain me to thee with that hair!

Heigh ho! chill go to plough no more! Sit down and take thy rest; Of golden groats I have full store To flaunt it with the best. But I love and I love, and who thinks you? The finest lass that e’er you knew, Which makes me sing when I should cry Heigh ho! for love I die.

The Bachelor. How many things as yet Are dear alike to me! The field, the horse, the dog, Love, arms, or liberty. I have no wife as yet That I may call mine own; I have no children yet That by my name are known. Yet, if I married were, I would not wish to thrive If that I could not tame The veriest shrew alive.

How shall I then describe my Love? When all men’s skilful art Is far inferior to her worth, To praise the unworthiest part. She’s chaste in looks, mild in her speech, In actions all discreet, Of nature loving, pleasing most, In virtue all complete. And for her voice a Philomel, Her lips may all lips scorn; No sun more clear than is her eye, In brightest summer morn. A mind wherein all virtues rest And take delight to be, And where all virtues graft themselves In that most fruitful tree: A tree that India doth not yield, Nor ever yet was seen, Where buds of virtue always spring, And all the year grow green. That country’s blest wherein she grows, And happy is that rock From whence she springs: but happiest he That grafts in such a stock.

I always loved to call my lady Rose, For in her cheeks roses do sweetly glose, And from her lips she such sweet odours threw As roses do ’gainst Phœbus’ morning-view: But when I thought to pull’t, hope was bereft me,— My rose was gone and naught but prickles left me.

A Wooing Song of a Yeoman of Kent’s Son. I have house and land in Kent, And if you’ll love me, love me now; Twopence-halfpenny is my rent, I cannot come every day to woo. Chorus. Twopence-halfpenny is his rent, And he cannot come every day to woo. Ich am my vather’s eldest zonne, My mother eke doth love me well, For ich can bravely clout my shoone, And ich full well can ring a bell. Chorus. For he can bravely clout his shoone, And he full well can ring a bell. My vather he gave me a hog, My mouther she gave me a zow; I have a God-vather dwels thereby, And he on me bestowed a plow. Chorus. He has a God-vather dwells thereby, And he on him bestowed a plough. One time I gave thee a paper of pins, Another time a tawdry-lace; And if thou wilt not grant me love, In truth ich die bevore thy face. Chorus. And if thou wilt not grant his love, In truth he’ll die bevore thy vace. Ich have been twice our Whitson-lord, Ich have had ladies many vair, And eke thou hast my heart in hold And in my mind zeems passing rare. Chorus. And eke thou hast his heart in hold And in his mind seems passing rare. Ich will put on my best white slops And ich will wear my yellow hose, And on my head a good grey hat, And in’t ich stick a lovely rose. Chorus. And on his head a good grey hat, And in’t he’ll stick a lovely rose. Wherefore cease off, make no delay, And if you’ll love me, love me now; Or else ich zeek zome oderwhere, For I cannot come every day to woo. Chorus. Or else he’ll zeek zome oderwhere, For he cannot come every day to woo.

I joy not in no earthly bliss, I force not Crœsus’ wealth a straw; For care I know not what it is I fear not Fortune’s fatal law: My mind is such as may not move For beauty bright nor force of love. I wish but what I have at will, I wander not to seek for more; I like the plain, I climb no hill; In greatest storms I sit on shore And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again. I kiss not where I wish to kill; I feign not love where most I hate; I break no sleep to win my will; I wait not at the mighty’s gate; I scorn no poor, nor fear no rich; I feel no want, nor have too much. The court and cart I like nor loath; Extremes are counted worst of all; The golden mean between them both Doth surest sit and fears no fall. This is my choice: for why? I find No wealth is like the quiet mind.

I live, and yet methinks I do not breathe; I thirst and drink, I drink and thirst again; I sleep and yet do dream I am awake; I hope for that I have; I have and want: I sing and sigh; I love and hate at once. O, tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar Doth cause in store such want, in peace such war? Risposta. There is a jewel which no Indian mines Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit; It makes men rich in greatest poverty; Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, The homely whistle to sweet music’s strain: Seldom it come, to few from heaven sent, That much in little, all in nought,—Content.

The Maid. I marriage would forswear, But that I hear men tell That she that dies a maid Must lead an ape in hell. Therefore, if fortune come, I will not mock and play Nor drive the bargain on Till it be driven away. Titles and lands I like, Yet rather fancy can A man that wanteth gold Than gold that wants a man.

The Married Man. I only am the man Among all married men That do not wish the priest, To be unlinked again. And though my shoe did wring I would not make my moan, Nor think my neighbours’ chance More happy than mine own. Yet court I not my wife, But yield observance due, Being neither fond nor cross, Nor jealous nor untrue.

I saw my Lady weep, And sorrow proud to be advancèd so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep. Her face was full of woe, But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts. Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing; Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare; She made her sighs to sing, And all things with so sweet a sadness move As made my heart at once both grieve and love. O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve. Enough, enough; your joyful look excels; Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in woe, Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow.

I sung sometime my thoughts and fancy’s pleasure, Where I did list, or time served best and leisure; While Daphne did invite me To supper once, and drank to me to spite me. I smiled, but yet did doubt her, And drank where she had drunk before, to flout her; But, O! while I did eye her, Mine eyes drank love, my lips drank burning fire.

I weigh not Fortune’s frown nor smile, I joy not much in earthly joys, I seek not state, I reak [sic] not style, I am not fond of Fancy’s toys. I rest so pleased with what I have I wish no more, no more I crave. I tremble not at noise of war, I quake not at the thunder’s crack, I shrink not at a blazing star, I sound not at the news of wreck, I fear no loss, I hope no gain, I envy none, I none disdain. I see Ambition never pleased, I see some Tantals starve in store, I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased, I see each Midas gape for more: I neither want nor yet abound, Enough’s a feast, content is crowned. I feign not friendship where I hate, I fawn not on the great for grace, I prize, I praise a mean estate Ne yet too lofty, nor too base, This is all my choice, my cheer— A mind content and conscience clear.

I will no more come to thee That flout’st me when I woo thee; Still ty hy thou criest And all my lovely rings and pins denyest. O say, alas, what moves thee To grieve him so that loves thee? Leave, alas, then, ah leave tormenting And give my burning some relenting.

If fathers knew but how to leave Their children wit as they do wealth, And could constrain them to receive That physic which brings perfect health, The world would not admiring stand A woman’s face and woman’s hand. Women confess they must obey, We men will needs be servants still; We kiss their hands, and what they say We must commend, be’t ne’er so ill: Thus we, like fools, admiring stand Her pretty foot and pretty hand. We blame their pride, which we increase By making mountains of a mouse; We praise because we know we please; Poor women are too credulous To think that we admiring stand Or foot, or face, or foolish hand.

If I urge my kind desires, She, unkind, doth them reject, Women’s hearts are painted fires, To deceive them that affect. I alone love’s fires include: She alone doth them delude. She hath often vowed her love: But alas no fruit I find. That her fires are false I prove Yet, in her, no fault I find. I was thus unhappy born, And ordained to be her scorn. Yet if human care or pain, May the heavenly order change; She will hate her own disdain, And repent she was so strange: For a truer heart than I, Never lived, nor loved to die.

If my complaints could passions move, Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong; My passions were enough to prove That my despairs had governed me too long. O Love, I live and die in thee! Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me. Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks, Yet thou dost hope when I despair; My heart for thy unkindness breaks; Thou say’st thou can’st my harms repair, And when I hope thou mak’st me hope in vain; Yet for redress thou let’st me still complain. Can Love be rich, and yet I want? Is Love my judge, and yet am I condemned? Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant; Thou made a god, and yet thy power contemned! That I do live, it is thy power; That I desire it is thy worth. If love doth make men’s lives too sour, Let me not love, nor live henceforth! Die shall my hopes, but not my faith, That you, that of my fall may hearers be, May hear Despair, which truly saith “I was more true to Love, than Love to me.”

If thou long’st so much to learn, sweet boy, what ’tis to love, Do but fix thy thoughts on me and thou shalt quickly prove: Little suit at first shall win Way to thy abashed desire, But then will I hedge thee in, Salamander-like, with fire. With thee dance I will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance bear; We the grovy hills will climb and play the wantons there; Other whiles we’ll gather flowers, Lying dallying on the grass; And thus our delightful hours, Full of waking dreams, shall pass. When thy joys were thus at height, my love should turn from thee, Old acquaintance then should grow as strange, as strange might be: Twenty rivals thou shouldst find, Breaking all their hearts for me, While to all I’ll prove more kind And more forward than to thee. Thus thy silly youth, enraged, would soon my love defy, But, alas, poor soul, too late! clipt wings can never fly. Those sweet hours which we had past, Called to thy mind, thy heart would burn; And couldst thou fly ne’er so fast, They would make thee straight return.

If women could be fair and never fond, Or that their beauty might continue still, I would not marvel though they made men bond By service long to purchase their goodwill: But when I see how frail these creatures are, I laugh that men forget themselves so far.

To mark what choice they make and how they change, How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still; And how, like haggards wild, about they range, And scorning reason follow after will![6] Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist And let them fly (fair fools!) which way they list?

Yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please: And train them on to yield by subtle oath The sweet content that gives such humour ease: And then we say, when we their follies try, “To play with fools, O, what a fool was I!”

In crystal towers and turrets richly set With glitt’ring gems that shine against the sun, In regal rooms of jasper and of jet, Content of mind not always likes to won;[7] But oftentimes it pleaseth her to stay In simple cotes enclosed with walls of clay.

In darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be, The roof despair to bar all cheerful light from me, The walls of marble black that moistened still shall weep, My music hellish jarring sounds to banish friendly sleep: Thus wedded to my woes, and bedded in my tomb O let me dying live till death doth come. My dainties grief shall be, and tears my poisoned wine, My sighs the air through which my panting heart shall pine, My robes my mind shall suit exceeding blackest night, My study shall be tragic thoughts sad fancy to delight, Pale ghosts and frightful shades shall my acquaintance be: O thus, my hapless joy, I haste to thee.

In midst of woods or pleasant grove, Where all sweet birds do sing, Methought I heard so rare a sound Which made the heavens to ring. The charm was good, the noise full sweet, Each bird did play his part; And I admired to hear the same, Joy sprang into my heart. The black bird made the sweetest sound, Whose tunes did far excel; Full pleasantly, and most profound Was all things placed well. Thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird, Done with so good a grace, Extolls thy name, prefers the same Abroad in every place. Thy music grave, bedeckèd well With sundry points of skill, Bewrays thy knowledge excellent Ingrafted in thy will. My tongue shall speak, my pen shall write In praise of thee to tell; The sweetest bird that ever was, In friendly sort farewell.

In pride of May The fields are gay, The birds do sweetly sing. Fa la la! So Nature would That all things should With joy begin the spring. Fa la la! Then, Lady dear, Do you appear In beauty like the spring: Fa la la! I dare well say The birds that day More cheerfully will sing. Fa la la!

Φεύγειν δὴ τὸν Ἔρωτα κενὸς πόνος.—Archias.

In Sherwood lived stout Robin Hood, An archer great, none greater, His bow and shafts were sure and good, Yet Cupid’s were much better; Robin could shoot at many a hart and miss, Cupid at first could hit a heart of his. Hey, jolly Robin Hood, ho jolly Robin Hood, Love finds out me As well as thee, To follow me to the green-wood.

A noble thief was Robin Hood, Wise was he could deceive him; Yet Marian in his bravest mood Could of his heart bereave him: No greater thief lies hidden under skies, Than beauty closely lodged in women’s eyes. Hey, jolly Robin, &c.

An outlaw was this Robin Hood, His life free and unruly, Yet to fair Marian bound he stood And love’s debt paid her duly: Whom curb of strictest law could not hold in, Love[8] to obedience with a wink could win. Hey, jolly Robin, &c.

Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood, Leave we the woods behind us, Love-passions must not be withstood, Love everywhere will find us. I lived in field and town, and so did he; I got me to the woods, Love followed me. Hey, jolly Robin, &c.

In the merry month of May, On a morn by break of day, Forth I walk’d by the wood-side, Whereas May was in her pride: There I spyèd 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 said, none was false to you. He said, he had loved her long; She said, Love should have no wrong. Corydon would kiss her then; She said, maids must kiss no men Till they did for good and all; Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth Never lov’d a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath, Yea and nay, and faith and troth, Such as seely 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 the May.

Inconstant Laura makes me death to crave, For wanting her I must embrace my grave; A little grave will ease my malady And set me free from love’s fell tyranny. Intomb me then and show her where I lie, And say I died through her inconstancy.

Injurious hours, whilst any joy doth bless me, With speedy wings you fly and so release me; But if some sorrow do oppress my heart, You creep as if you never meant to part.

Is Love a boy,—what means he then to strike? Or is he blind,—why will he be a guide? Is he a man,—why doth he hurt his like? Is he a God,—why doth he men deride? No one of these, but one compact of all: A wilful boy, a man still dealing blows, Of purpose blind to lead men to their thrall, A god that rules unruly—God, he knows. Boy, pity me that am a child again; Blind, be no more my guide to make me stray; Man, use thy might to force away my pain; God, do me good and lead me to my way; And if thou beest a power to me unknown, Power of my life, let here thy grace be shown.

The Marriage of the Frog and the Mouse. It was the frog in the well, Humbledum, humbledum, And the merry mouse in the mill, Tweedle, tweedle, twino. The frog would a wooing ride Sword and buckler by his side. When he upon his high horse set, His boots they shone as black as jet. When he came to the merry mill-pin,— “Lady Mouse, been you within?” Then came out the dusty mouse: “I am Lady of this house: Hast thou any mind of me?” “I have e’en great mind of thee?” “Who shall this marriage make?” “Our Lord which is the rat,” “What shall we have to our supper?” “Three beans in a pound of butter?” When supper they were at, The frog, the mouse, and e’en the rat; Then came in Gib our cat, And catched the mouse e’en by the back. Then did they separate, And the frog leaped on the floor so flat. Then came in Dick our drake, And drew the frog e’en to the lake. The rat run up the wall, Humbledum, humbledum; A goodly company, the Devil go with all! Tweedle tweedle twino.

Jack and Joan, they think no ill, But loving live, and merry still; Do their week-days’ work, and pray Devoutly on the holy day: Skip and trip it on the green, And help to choose the Summer Queen; Lash out at a country feast Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale, And tell at large a winter tale; Climb up to the apple loft, And turn the crabs till they be soft. Tib is all the father’s joy, And little Tom the mother’s boy. All their pleasure is Content; And Care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows And deck her windows with green boughs; She can wreaths and tutties[9] make, And trim with plums a bridal cake. Jack knows what brings gain or loss; And his long flail can stoutly toss: Makes the hedge which others break, And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights, That study only strange delights; Though you scorn the homespun gray And revel in your rich array; Though your tongues dissemble deep, And can your heads from danger keep; Yet, for all your pomp and train, Securer lives the silly swain.

Kind are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers, From their own music when they stray. All her free favours and smooth words Wing my hopes in vain. O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign? Can true love yield such delay, Converting joy to pain? Lost is our freedom When we submit to women so: Why do we need ’em When, in their best, they work our woe? There is no wisdom Can alter ends by Fate prefixt. O, why is the good of man with evil mixt? Never were days yet callèd two But one night went betwixt.

Kind in unkindness, when will you relent And cease with faint love true love to torment? Still entertained, excluded still I stand; Her glove still hold, but cannot touch the hand. In her fair hand my hopes and comforts rest: O might my fortunes with that hand be blest! No envious breaths then my deserts could shake, For they are good whom such true love doth make. O let not beauty so forget her birth That it should fruitless home return to earth! Love is the fruit of beauty, then love one! Not your sweet self, for such self-love is none. Love one that only lives in loving you; Whose wronged deserts would you with pity view, This strange distaste which your affection sways Would relish love, and you find better days. Thus till my happy sight your beauty views, Whose sweet remembrance still my hope renews, Let these poor lines solicit love for me, And place my joys where my desires would be.

Lady, the birds right fairly Are singing ever early; The lark, the thrush, the nightingale, The make-sport cuckoo and the quail. These sing of Love! then why sleep ye? To love your sleep it may not be.

Lady, the melting crystal of your eye Like frozen drops upon your cheeks did lie; Mine eye was dancing on them with delight, And saw love’s flames within them burning bright, Which did mine eye entice To play with burning ice; But O, my heart thus sporting with desire, My careless eye did set my heart on fire. O that a drop from such a sweet fount flying Should flame like fire and leave my heart a-dying! I burn, my tears can never drench it Till in your eyes I bathe my heart and quench it: But there, alas, love with his fire lies sleeping, And all conspire to burn my heart with weeping.

Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting, Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, My eyes present me with a double doubting: For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes Whether the roses be your lips or your lips [be] the roses.

Let not Chloris think, because She hath unvassel’d me, That her beauty can give laws To others that are free: I was made to be the prey And booty of her eyes! In my bosom, she may say. Her greatest kingdom lies. Though others may her brow adore, Yet more must I that therein see far more Than any other’s eyes have power to see; She is to me More than to any others she can be. I can discern more secret notes That in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes Than any else besides have art to read; No looks proceed From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed. O then why Should she fly From him to whom her sight Doth add so much above her might? Why should not she Still joy to reign in me?

Let not the sluggish sleep Close up thy waking eye, Until with judgment deep Thy daily deeds thou try: He that one sin in conscience keeps When he to quiet goes, More vent’rous is than he that sleeps With twenty mortal foes.

Let us in a lovers’ round Circle all this hallowed ground; Softly, softly trip and go, The light-foot Fairies jet it so. Forward then, and back again, Here and there and everywhere, Winding to and fro, Skipping high and louting low; And, like lovers, hand in hand, March around and make a stand.

Like two proud armies marching in the field,— Joining a thund’ring fight, each scorns to yield,— So in my heart your beauty and my reason: One claims the crown, the other says ’tis treason. But oh! your beauty shineth as the sun; And dazzled reason yields as quite undone.

Lo! country sport that seldom fades; A garland of the spring, A prize for dancing, country maids With merry pipes we bring. Then all at once for our town cries! Pipe on, for we will have the prize.

Lo, when back mine eye Pilgrim-like I cast, What fearful ways I spie Which, blinded, I securely passed! But now heaven hath drawn From my brows that night; As when the day doth dawn, So clears my long-imprisoned sight. Straight the Caves of Hell Dressed with flowers I see, Wherein False Pleasures dwell, That, winning most, most deadly be. Throngs of maskèd fiends, Winged like angels, fly; Even in the gates of friends, In fair disguise black dangers lie. Straight to heaven I raised My restorèd sight, And with loud voice I praised The Lord of ever-during light. And since I had strayed From His ways so wide, His grace I humbly prayed Henceforth to be my guard and guide.

The Courtier. Long have I lived in Court, Yet learned not all this while To sell poor suiters smoke, Nor where I hate to smile; Superiors to adore, Inferiors to despise, To flie from such as fall, To follow such as rise: To cloak a poor desire Under a rich array, Nor to aspire by Vice, Though ’twere the quicker way.

Love is a bable, No man is able To say ’tis this or ’tis that; So full of passions Of sundry fashions, ’Tis like I cannot tell what.

Love’s fair in the cradle, Foul in the fable, ’Tis either too cold or too hot; An arrant liar, Fed by desire, It is and yet it is not.

Love is a fellow Clad oft in yellow,[10] The canker-worm of the mind, A privy mischief, And such a sly thief No man knows which way to find.

Love is a wonder That’s here and yonder, As common to one as to moe; A monstrous cheater, Every man’s debtor; Hang him and so let him go.

Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part: No, nor for a constant heart! For these may fail or turn to ill: So thou and I shall sever. Keep therefore a true woman’s eye, And love me still, but know not why! So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever.

Love’s god is a boy, None but cowherds regard him, His dart is a toy, Great opinion hath marred him: The fear of the wag Hath made him so brag; Chide him, he’ll flie thee And not come nigh thee. Little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random, For if you hit me, slave, I’ll tell your grandam. Fond love is a child And his compass is narrow, Young fools are beguiled With the fame of his arrow; He dareth not strike If his stroke do mislike: Cupid, do you hear me? Come not too near me. Little boy, pretty knave, hence I beseech you, For if you hit me, knave, in faith I’ll breech you. Th’ ape loves to meddle When he finds a man idle, Else is he a-flirting Where his mark is a-courting; When women grow true Come teach me to sue, Then I’ll come to thee Pray thee and woo thee. Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger, For if you hit me, knave, I’ll call thee, beggar.

Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly Far from base earth, but not to mount too high; For true pleasure Lives in measure, Which if men forsake, Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take. But my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight, Enamoured sought to woo the sun’s fair light, Whose rich brightness Moved their lightness To aspire so high That all scorched and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie. And none but Love their woeful hap did rue, For Love did know that their desires were true; Though Fate frownèd, And now drownèd They in sorrow dwell, It was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell.

“Maids are simple,” some men say, “They forsooth will trust no men.” But should they men’s wills obey, Maids were very simple then. Truth a rare flower now is grown, Few men wear it in their hearts; Lovers are more easily known By their follies than deserts. Safer may we credit give To a faithless wandering Jew, Than a young man’s vows believe When he swears his love is true. Love they make a poor blind child, But let none trust such as he; Rather than to be beguiled, Ever let me simple be.

The Bellman’s Song. Maids to bed and cover coal; Let the mouse out of her hole; Crickets in the chimney sing Whilst the little bell doth ring; If fast asleep, who can tell When the clapper hits the bell?

More than most fair, full of all heavenly fire, Kindled above to shew the Maker’s glory; Beauty’s first-born, in whom all powers conspire To write the Graces’ life and Muses’ story; If in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd, Honour the shrine where you alone are placèd. Thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits, True character of honour in perfection, Thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits, And glorious prison of men’s pure affection: If in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd Honour the shrine where you alone are placèd.

Mother, I will have a husband, And I will have him out of hand! Mother, I will sure have one In spite of her that will have none. John-a-Dun should have had me long ere this: He said I had good lips to kiss. Mother, I will sure have one In spite of her that will have none. For I have heard ’tis trim when folks do love; By good Sir John I swear now I will prove. For, Mother, I will sure have one In spite of her that will have none. To the town, therefore, will I gad To get me a husband, good or bad. Mother, I will sure have one In spite of her that will have none.

My hope a counsel with my heart Hath long desired to be, And marvels much so dear a friend Is not retain’d by me. She doth condemn my haste In passing the estate Of my whole life into their hands Who nought repays but hate: And not sufficed with this, she says, I did release the right Of my enjoyèd liberties Unto your beauteous sight.

My love bound me with a kiss That I should no longer stay; When I felt so sweet a bliss I had less power to part away: Alas, that women doth not know Kisses make men loath to go. Yes, she knows it but too well, For I heard when Venus’ dove In her ear did softly tell That kisses were the seals of love: O muse not then though it be so, Kisses make men loath to go. Wherefore did she thus inflame My desires heat my blood, Instantly to quench the same And starve whom she had given food? I the common sense can show, Kisses make men loath to go. Had she bid me go at first It would ne’er have grieved my heart, Hope delayed had been the worst; But ah to kiss and then to part! How deep it struck, speak, gods, you know Kisses make men loath to go.

My Love is neither young nor old, Not fiery-hot nor frozen-cold, But fresh and fair as springing briar Blooming the fruit of love’s desire; Not snowy-white nor rosy-red, But fair enough for shepherd’s bed; And such a love was never seen On hill or dale or country-green.

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, No 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 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 did so as well as I!

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares! My feast of joy is but a dish of pain! My crop of corn is but a field of tares! And all my good is but vain hope of gain! My life is fled, and yet I saw no sun! And now I live, and now my life is done! The Spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung! The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green! My youth is gone, and yet I am but young! I saw the World and yet I was not seen! My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun! And now I live, and now my life is done.

Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus. My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, And though the sager sort our deeds reprove Let us not weigh them. Heaven’s great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive; But, soon as once is set our little light, Then must we sleep one ever-during night. If all would lead their lives in love like me, Then bloody swords and armour should not be; No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love: But fools do live and waste their little light, And seek with pain their ever-during night. When timely death my life and fortunes ends, Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends; But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb: And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light And crown with love my ever-during night.

My Thoughts are winged with Hopes, my Hopes with Love: Mount Love unto the moon in clearest night, And say, as she doth in the heavens move, In earth so wanes and waxeth my delight: And whisper this, but softly, in her ears, “Hope oft doth hang the head and Trust shed tears.” And you, my Thoughts, that some mistrust do carry, If for mistrust my mistress do you blame, Say, though you alter, yet you do not vary, As she doth change and yet remain the same; Distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect, And Love is sweetest seasoned with Suspect. If she for this with clouds do mask her eyes And make the heavens dark with her disdain, With windy sighs disperse them in the skies Or with thy tears dissolve them into rain. Thoughts, Hopes, and Love, return to me no more Till Cynthia shine as she hath done before.

Never love unless you can Bear with all the faults of man: Men sometimes will jealous be Though but little cause they see; And hang the head as discontent, And speak what straight they will repent. Men that but one saint adore Make a show of love to more; Beauty must be scorned in none, Though but truly served in one: For what is courtship but disguise? True hearts may have dissembling eyes. Men, when their affairs require, Must awhile themselves retire; Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk, And not ever sit and talk: If these and such-like you can bear, Then like, and love, and never fear!

Now each creature joys the other, Passing happy days and hours: One bird reports unto another By the fall of silver showers; Whilst the Earth, our common Mother, Hath her bosom decked with flowers.

Now every tree renews his summer’s green, Why is your heart in winter’s garments clad? Your beauty says my love is summer’s queen, But your cold love like winter makes me sad: Then either spring with buds of love again Or else congeal my thoughts with your disdain.

Now God be with old Simeon, For he made cans for many-a-one, And a good old man was he; And Jinkin was his journeyman, And he could tipple of every can, And thus he said to me: “To whom drink you?” “Sir knave, to you.” Then hey-ho, jolly Jinkin! I spie a knave in drinking.

Now have I learn’d with much ado at last By true disdain to kill desire; This was the mark at which I shot so fast, Unto this height I did aspire: Proud Love, now do thy worst and spare not, For thee and all thy shafts I care not. What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind, What life to quicken dead desire? I count thy words and oaths as light as wind, I feel no heat in all thy fire: Go, change thy bow and get a stronger, Go, break thy shafts and buy thee longer. In vain thou bait’st thy hook with beauty’s blaze, In vain thy wanton eyes allure; These are but toys for them that love to gaze, I know what harm thy looks procure: Some strange conceit must be devised, Or thou and all thy skill despised.

Now I see thy looks were feignèd Quickly lost, and quickly gainèd; Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers, Heart inconstant, light as feathers, Tongue untrusty, subtle sighted, Wanton will with change delighted. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason! Of thine eye I made my mirror, From thy beauty came my error, All thy words I counted witty, All thy sighs I deemèd pity, Thy false tears, that me aggrievèd First of all my trust deceivèd. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason! Feigned acceptance when I askèd, Lovely words with cunning maskèd, Holy vows, but heart unholy; Wretched man, my trust was folly; Lily white, and pretty winking, Solemn vows but sorry thinking. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason! Now I see, O seemly cruel, Others warm them at my fuel, Wit shall guide me in this durance Since in love is no assurance: Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure, Beauty is a fading treasure. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid, plague thee for thy treason! Prime youth lasts not, age will follow And make white those tresses yellow; Wrinkled face, for looks delightful, Shall acquaint the dame despiteful. And when time shall date thy glory, Then too late thou wilt be sorry. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Now is my Chloris fresh as May, Clad all in green and flowers gay. Fa la la! O might I think August were near That harvest joy might soon appear. Fa la la! But she keeps May throughout the year, And August never comes the near. Fa la la! Yet will I hope, though she be May, August will come another day. Fa la la!

Now is the month of maying, When merry lads are playing Each with his bonny lass Upon the greeny grass. Fa la la! The spring clad all in gladness Doth laugh at winter’s sadness, And to the bagpipe’s sound The nymphs tread out their ground. Fa la la! Fie then, why sit we musing, Youth’s sweet delight refusing? Say, dainty nymphs, and speak, Shall we play barley-break. Fa la la!

Now let her change! and spare not! Since she proves strange, I care not! Feigned love charmed so my delight, That still I doted on her sight. But she is gone! new joys embracing, And my distress disgracing. When did I err in blindness? Or vex her with unkindness? If my cares served her alone, Why is she thus untimely gone? True love abides to th’ hour of dying: False love is ever flying. False! then farewell for ever! Once false proves faithful never! He that boasts now of thy love, Shall soon, my present fortunes prove Were he as fair as bright Adonis: Faith is not had where none is!

Now let us make a merry greeting And thank God Cupid for our meeting: My heart is full of joy and pleasure Since thou art here, mine only treasure. Now will we dance and sport and play And sing a merry roundelay.

Now what is love, I pray thee tell? It is that fountain and that well Where pleasures and repentance dwell; It is perhaps that sancing-bell[11] That tolls all in to heaven or hell: And this is love, as I hear tell.

Now what is love, I pray thee say? It is a work on holyday, It is December matched with May, When lusty bloods in fresh array Hear ten months after of their play: And this is love, as I hear say.

Now what is love, I pray thee feign? It is a sunshine mixed with rain, It is a gentle pleasing pain, A flower that dies and springs again, It is a No that would full fain: And this is love as I hear sain.

Yet what is love, I pray thee say? It is a pretty shady way As well found out by night as day, It is a thing will soon decay; Then take the vantage whilst you may: And this is love, as I hear say. Now what is love, I pray thee show? A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for mo, And he that proves shall find it so: And this is love, as I well know.

Now winter nights enlarge The number of their hours, And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze, And cups o’erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love, While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep’s leaden spells remove. This time doth well dispense With lovers’ long discourse; Much, speech hath some defence Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well; Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. The summer hath his joys And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights.

O say, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries, So lovely-ripe, by my rude lips be tasted? Shall I not pluck (sweet, say not nay) those cherries? O let them not with summer’s heat be blasted. Nature, thou know’st, bestow’d them free on thee; Then be thou kind—bestow them free on me.

O stay, sweet love; see here the place of sporting; These gentle flowers smile sweetly to invite us, And chirping birds are hitherwards resorting, Warbling sweet notes only to delight us: Then stay, dear Love, for though thou run from me, Run ne’er so fast, yet I will follow thee. I thought, my love, that I should overtake you; Sweet heart, sit down under this shadowed tree, And I will promise never to forsake you, So you will grant to me a lover’s fee. Whereat she smiled and kindly to me said— I never meant to live and die a maid.

O sweet, alas, what say you? Ay me, that face discloses The scarlet blush of sweet vermilion roses. And yet, alas, I know not If such a crimson staining Be for love or disdaining; But if of love it grow not, Be it disdain conceivèd To see us of love’s fruits so long bereavèd.

O sweet delight, O more than human bliss With her to live that ever loving is! To hear her speak whose words are so well placed That she by them, as they by her are graced! Those looks to view that feast the viewer’s eye, How blest is he that may so live and die! Such love as this the Golden Times did know, When all did reap and none took care to sow; Such love as this an endless summer makes, And all distaste from frail affection takes. So loved, so blest in my beloved am I: Which till their eyes ache let iron men envy!

Oft have I mused the cause to find Why Love in lady’s eyes should dwell; I thought, because himself was blind, He look’d that they should guide him well: And sure his hope but seldom fails, For Love by ladies’ eyes prevails. But time at last hath taught me wit, Although I bought my wit full dear; For by her eyes my heart is hit, Deep is the wound though none appear: Their glancing beams as darts he throws, And sure he hath no shafts but those. I mused to see their eyes so bright, And little thought they had been fire; I gazed upon them with delight, But that delight hath bred desire: What better place can Love desire Than that where grow both shafts and fire?

On a time the amorous Silvy Said to her shepherd, ‘Sweet, how do you? Kiss me this once, and then God be wi’ you, My sweetest dear! Kiss me this once and then God be wi’ you, For now the morning draweth near.’ With that, her fairest bosom showing, Opening her lips, rich perfumes blowing, She said, ‘Now kiss me and be going, My sweetest dear! Kiss me this once and then be going, For now the morning draweth near.’ With that the shepherd waked from sleeping, And, spying where the day was peeping, He said, ‘Now take my soul in keeping, My sweetest dear! Kiss me, and take my soul in keeping, Since I must go, now day is near.’

Once did I love and yet I live, Though love and truth be now forgotten; Then did I joy, now do I grieve That holy vows must now be broken.

Hers be the blame that caused it so, Mine be the grief though it be mickle;[12] She shall have shame, I cause to know What ’tis to love a dame so fickle.

Love her that list, I am content For that chameleon-like she changeth, Yielding such mists as may prevent My sight to view her when she rangeth.

Let him not vaunt that gains my loss, For when that he and time hath proved her, She may him bring to Weeping-Cross: I say no more, because I loved her.

Once I thought to die for love, Till I found that women prove Traitors in their smiling: They say men unconstant be, But they themselves Jove change, we see, And all is but beguiling.

Our country-swains in the morris dance Thus woo and win their brides, Will for our town the hobby horse At pleasure frolic rides: I woo with tears and ne’er the near, I die in grief and live in fear.

Pierce did love fair Petronel Because she sang and dancèd well And gallantly could prank it; He pulled her and he haul’d her And oftentimes he call’d her Primrose pearls prick’d in a blanket.

Pour forth, mine eyes, the fountains of your tears; Break, heart, and die, for now no hope appears; Hope, upon which before my thoughts were fed, Hath left me quite forlorn and from me fled. Yet, see, she smiles! O see, some hope appears! Hold, heart, and live; mine eyes, cease off your tears.

Robin is a lovely lad, No lass a smoother ever had; Tommy hath a look as bright As is the rosy morning light; Tib is dark and brown of hue, But like her colour firm and true; Jenny hath a lip to kiss Wherein a spring of nectar is; Simkin well his mirth can place And words to win a woman’s grace; Sib is all in all to me, There is no Queen of Love but she.

The Satyrs’ Dance. Round-a, round-a, keep your ring: To the glorious sun we sing,— Ho, ho! He that wears the flaming rays, And th’ imperial crown of bays, Him with shouts and songs we praise— Ho, ho! That in his bounty he’d vouchsafe to grace The humble sylvans and their shaggy race.

See, see, mine own sweet jewel, What I have for my darling: A robin-redbreast and a starling. These I give both in hope to move thee; Yet thou say’st I do not love thee.

Shall a frown or angry eye, Shall a word unfitly placèd, Shall a shadow make me flie As if I were with tigers chasèd? Love must not be so disgracèd. Shall I woo her in despight? Shall I turn her from her flying? Shall I tempt her with delight? Shall I laugh at her denying? No: beware of lovers’ crying. Shall I then with patient mind Still attend her wayward pleasure? Time will make her prove more kind, Let her coyness then take leisure: She is worthy such a treasure.

Shall I abide this jesting? I weep, and she’s a-feasting! O cruel fancy, that so doth blind me To love one that doth not mind me! Can I abide this prancing? I weep, and she’s a-dancing! O cruel fancy, so to betray me! Thou goest about to slay me.

Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee When the evening beams are set? Shall I not excluded be, Will you find no feignèd let? Let me not, for pity, more Tell the long hours at your door. Who can tell what thief or foe, In the covert of the night, For his prey will work my woe, Or through wicked foul despite? So may I die unredrest Ere my long love be possest. But to let such dangers pass, Which a lover’s thoughts disdain, ’Tis enough in such a place To attend love’s joys in vain: Do not mock me in thy bed, While these cold nights freeze me dead.

Shall I look to ease my grief? No, my sight is lost with eying: Shall I speak and beg relief? No, my voice is hoarse with crying: What remains but only dying? Love and I of late did part, But the boy, my peace envying, Like a Parthian threw his dart Backward, and did wound me flying: What remains but only dying? She whom then I lookèd on, My remembrance beautifying, Stays with me though I am gone, Gone and at her mercy lying: What remains but only dying? Shall I try her thoughts and write? No I have no means of trying: If I should, yet at first sight She would answer with denying: What remains but only dying? Thus my vital breath doth waste, And, my blood with sorrow drying, Sighs and tears make life to last For a while, their place supplying: What remains but only dying?

She whose matchless beauty staineth What best judgment fair’st maintaineth, She, O she, my love disdaineth. Can a creature, so excelling, Harbour scorn in beauty’s dwelling, All kind pity thence expelling? Pity beauty much commendeth And th’ embracer oft befriendeth When all eye-contentment endeth. Time proves beauty transitory; Scorn, the stain of beauty’s glory, In time makes the scorner sorry. None adores the sun declining; Love all love falls to resigning When the sun of love leaves shining. So, when flower of beauty fails thee, And age, stealing on, assails thee, Then mark what this scorn avails thee. Then those hearts, which now complaining Feel the wounds of thy disdaining, Shall contemn thy beauty waning. Yea, thine own heart, now dear-prizèd, Shall with spite and grief surprisèd Burst to find itself despisèd. When like harms have them requited Who in others’ harms delighted, Pleasingly the wrong’d are righted. Such revenge my wrongs attending, Hope still lives on time depending, By thy plagues thy torrents ending.

Shoot, false Love! I care not; Spend thy shafts and spare not! Fa la la! I fear not, I, thy might, And less I weigh thy spite; All naked I unarm me,— If thou canst, now shoot and harm me! So lightly I esteem thee As now a child I dream thee. Fa la la la!

Long thy bow did fear[13] me, While thy pomp did blear me; Fa la la! But now I do perceive Thy art is to deceive; And every simple lover All thy falsehood can discover. Then weep, Love! and be sorry, For thou hast lost thy glory. Fa la la la!

Silly boy! ’tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly; Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly. Shortly wilt thou mourn when all thy pleasures be bereavèd, Little knows he how to love that never was deceivèd. This is thy first maiden-flame that triumphs yet unstainèd, All is artless now you speak, not one word is feignèd; All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessèd, But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath his Cressid. Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected, And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected; Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holy And with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly. Yet be just and constant still, Love may beget a wonder, Not unlike a summer’s frost or winter’s fatal thunder: He that holds his sweetheart true unto his day of dying, Lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the envying.

Simkin said that Sis was fair, And that he meant to love her; He set her on his ambling mare,— All this he did to prove her. When they came home Sis floted cream And poured it through a strainer, But sware that Simkin should have none Because he did disdain her.

Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye, If now I be disdained I wish my heart had never known ye. What? I that loved and you that liked shall we begin to wrangle? No, no no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle. If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me Or if my hands had strayed but a touch, then justly might you leave me. I asked you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me? No no no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me. The sun whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder, And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder, Where beauty moves, and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me There, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me.

Sing we and chant it While love doth grant it. Fa la la! Not long youth lasteth, And old age hasteth. Fa la la! Now is best leisure To take our pleasure. Fa la la! All things invite us Now to delight us. Fa la la! Hence care be packing, No mirth be lacking. Fa la la! Let spare no treasure To live in pleasure. Fa la la!

Sister, awake! close not your eyes! The day her light discloses, And the bright morning doth arise Out of her bed of roses. See, the clear sun, the world’s bright eye, In at our window peeping: Lo! how he blusheth to espy Us idle wenches sleeping. Therefore, awake! make haste, I say, And let us, without staying, All in our gowns of green so gay Into the park a-maying.