From ROBERT JONES' Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.

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.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs, 1588.

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!

From JOHN MUNDY's Songs and Psalms, 1594.

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.

From CAMPION AND ROSSETER's Book of Airs, 1601.

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.

From JOHN DOWLAND's First Book of Songs or Airs, 1597.

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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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!

From JOHN FARMER's First Set of English Madrigals, 1599. (Verses by Samuel Daniel.)

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.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Madrigals, 1597.

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.

From Pammelia, 1609.

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.

From ROBERT JONES' Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs (1608).

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.

From THOMAS FORD's Music of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

Now I see thy looks were feigned Quickly lost, and quickly gained; 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 deemed pity, Thy false tears, that me aggrieved First of all my trust deceived. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Feigned acceptance when I asked, Lovely words with cunning masked, 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!

From THOMAS WEELKES' Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

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!

From THOMAS MORLEY's First Book of Ballets, 1595.

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!

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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!

From THOMAS WEELKES' Madrigals of Five and Six Parts, 1600

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.

From ROBERT JONES's Second Book of Airs, 1601. (Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)

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.

[11] Saint's-bell; the little bell that called to prayers.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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.

From JOHN WARD's First Set of English Madrigals, 1613.

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.

From JOHN FARMER's First Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

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.

From THOMAS MORLEY's Madrigals, 1594.

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 conceived To see us of love's fruits so long bereaved.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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!

From ROBERT JONES' Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs (1608).

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?

From JOHN ATTYE's First Book of Airs, 1622.

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.'

From ROBERT JONES' First Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.

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.

[12] Old ed., "little"

From HENRY YOULL's Canzonets to Three Voices, 1608.

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.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Madrigals, 1597

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.

From GILES FARNABY's Canzonets, 1598.

Pierce did love fair Petronel Because she sang and danced 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.

From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's First Set of Madrigals and Pastorals, 1613.

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.

From Airs sung and played at Brougham Castle, 1618, by GEORGE MASON and JOHN EARSDEN.

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.

From THOMAS RAVENSCROFT's Brief Discourse, 1614.

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.

From THOMAS MORLEY's Canzonets, 1593.

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.

From WILLIAM CORKINE's Airs, 1610.

Shall a frown or angry eye, Shall a word unfitly placed, Shall a shadow make me flie As if I were with tigers chased? Love must not be so disgraced.

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.

From RICHARD ALISON's An Hours Recreation in Music, 1606.

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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee When the evening beams are set? Shall I not excluded be, Will you find no feigned 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.

From ROBERT JONES' Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs (1608).

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 looked 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?

From ROBERT JONES' First Book of Airs, 1601.

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-prized, Shall with spite and grief surprised Burst to find itself despised.

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.

From THOMAS MORLEY's First Book of Ballets to Five Voices, 1595.

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!

[13] Frighten.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book of Airs, (circ. 1613).

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 bereaved, Little knows he how to love that never was deceived.

This is thy first maiden-flame that triumphs yet unstained, All is artless now you speak, not one word is feigned; All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed, 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.

From GILES FARNABY's Canzonets, 1598.

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.

From THOMAS FORD's Music Of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

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.

From THOMAS MORLEY's First Book of Ballets, 1595.

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!

From THOMAS BATESON's First Set of English Madrigals, 1604.

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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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.

From JOHN WILBYE's Second Set of Madrigals, 1609.

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.

From WILLIAM CORKINE's Airs, 1610.

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.

[14] Balanced.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's Book of Airs, 1601.

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, Reposed 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.

[15] Old ed. "do you keep it."

From WILLIAM CORKINE's Airs, 1610.

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.

[16] Shell, husk (as peas).

From THOMAS WEELKES' Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

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.

From ROBERT JONES' Musical Dream, 1609.

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 attained, They bewray they feigned, 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 attained, They bewray they feigned, 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!

From JOHN WILBYE's Madrigals, 1598.

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.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

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.

From ROBERT JONES' Ultimum Vale, or Third Book of Airs (1608).

Sweet Love, my only treasure, For service long unfeigned Wherein I nought have gained, Vouchsafe this little pleasure, To tell me in what part My Lady keeps her heart.

If in her hair so slender, Like golden nets entwined Which fire and art have fined, 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 framed By which it is inflamed, I dare not look to find it: I only wish it sight To see that pleasant light.

But if her breast have deigned With kindness to receive it, I am content to leave it Though death thereby were gained: Then, Lady, take your own That lives by you alone.

From JOHN DOWLAND's Pilgrim's Solace, 1612. (The first stanza is found in a poem of Donne.)

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 ph[oe]nix 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.

From THOMAS VAUTOR's Songs of divers Airs and Natures, 1619.

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!

From THOMAS WEELKES' Madrigals of Five and Six Parts, 1600.

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.

From FARMER's First Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

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 vowed truth, Lest, when thou waxeth old, Friends fail and love grow cold.

From Deuteromelia, 1609.

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.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Airs or Fantastic Spirits, 1608.

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!

From Pammelia, 1609

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.

From RICHARD CARLTON's Madrigals, 1601.

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.

From JOHN DOWLAND's Third and last Book of Songs and Airs, 1603.

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!

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's Book of Airs, 1601.

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.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Songs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

The greedy hawk with sudden sight of lure Doth stoop in hope to have her wished 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.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Psalms, Sonnets and Songs, 1588.

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.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Songs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

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.

From THOMAS BATESON's First Set of English Madrigals, 1604. (By Sir Philip Sidney.)

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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Second Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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.

[17] Old ed. "overflown."

From THOMAS CAMPION's Fourth Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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.

From THOMAS FORD's Music of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

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 confined there So long as Ph[oe]bus in his sphere, I to request, she to deny, Yet would I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged 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.

From Melismata, 1611.

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 greene 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.

[18] Old ed. "mate"; but "make," which is required for the rhyme, was a recognised form of "mate."

From ROBERT JONES' Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs (1608).

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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Fourth Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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!

From JOHN WILBYE's Madrigals, 1598.

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.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's Book of Airs, 1601. (Ascribed to Dr. Donne.)

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.

From JOHN DANYEL's Songs for the Lute, Viol, and Voice, 1606.

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.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs of Sadness and Piety, 1588.

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.

[19] Distracted.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Airs or Fantastic Spirits, 1608.

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.

From ROBERT JONES' Musical Dream, 1609. (This song is also printed in Thomas Campion's Two Books of Airs, circ. 1613.)

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.

[20] Old ed. "Some."

From GILES FARNABY's Canzonets, 1598.

Thrice blessed 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 quailed, She of my love and I of hers had failed.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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.

From JOHN WILBYE's Madrigals, 1598.

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.

[21] Old form of "whither."

From THOMAS MORLEY's First Book of Ballets to Five Voices, 1595.

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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Fourth Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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 Ph[oe]bus' right revenged grudge.

From ROBERT DOWLAND's Musical Banquet, 1610. (The lines are assigned to Robert Deveureux, Earl of Essex.)

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 loved 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.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

To shorten winter's sadness See where the nymphs with gladness Fa la la!

Disguised 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!

From JOHN DOWLAND's Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1600.

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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Fourth Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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.

From THOMAS FORD's Music of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

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 buried, 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.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Airs or Fantastic Spirits, 1608.

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.

[22] Swoon.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Songs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

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 devised 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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Second Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

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.

From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's Second Set of Madrigals, 1624.

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 joined heart.

From Deuteromelia, 1609.

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.

From Deuteromelia, 1609.

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!

From Egerton MS., 2013.

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.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voices, 1598.

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!

From WILLIAM BYRD's Psalms, Songs, and Sonnets, 1611.

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.

From THOMAS TOMKINS' Songs of Three, Four, Five, and Six Parts, 1622.

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.

From JOHN ROWLAND's Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.

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.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voices, 1598.

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!

From JOHN MUNDY's Songs and Psalms, 1594.

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.

From THOMAS CAMPION's Third Book Of Airs (circ. 1613).

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.

From Pammelia, 1609.

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.

[23] Old form of "talons."

From ORLANDO GIBBONS' First Set Of Madrigals, 1612. (Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)

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.

From JOHN WILBYE's Madrigals, 1598.

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 Ph[oe]bus 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!

From WILLIAM BYRD's Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs, 1588.

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.

From JOHN DOWLAND's Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.

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 feigned 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!

From THOMAS FORD's Music of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

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.

From RICHARD CARLTON's Madrigals, 1601.

When Flora fair the pleasant tidings bringeth Of summer sweet with herbs and flowers adorned, The nightingale upon the hawthorn singeth And Boreas' blasts the birds and beasts have scorned; 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 exiled, No summer grows where love yet never smiled.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Songs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

When I was otherwise than now I am, I loved more but skilled 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 proved 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.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's Book of Airs, 1601.

When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired 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.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Songs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

{deinos Eros, deinos; ti de to pleon, en palin eipo, kai palin, oimozon pollaki, deinos Eros?} 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!

From JOHN WILBYE's Second Set of Madrigals, 1609.

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 conveyed That on no joy, while so I lived, hath stayed.

From MARTIN PEARSON's Mottects or Grave Chamber-Music, 1630.

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.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's Book of Airs, 1601.

{skene pas ho bios, kai paignion.} 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.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Songs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

While that the sun with his beams hot Scorched 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 enchained; Full soon your love was leapt from me, Full soon my place he had obtained: 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 removed, Before that I the leisure had To choose you for my best beloved: 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.

From THOMAS WEELKES' Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

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!

From JOHN DOWLAND's Second Book of Songs or Airs, 1600.

White as lilies was her face: When she smiled She beguiled, Quitting faith with foul disgrace. Virtue's service thus neglected. Heart with sorrows hath infected.

When I swore my heart her own, She disdained; I complained, 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 choosed. Shortly loosed; 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 envied And my succours hast denied.

By thine error thou hast lost Heart unfeigned, Truth unstained. And the swain that loved 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.

From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's First Book of Songs or Airs, 1605.

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, Ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I'll my Ph[oe]be 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, Ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I'll my Ph[oe]be 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, Ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I'll my Ph[oe]be kiss.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs, 1588.

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.

From WILLIAM BYRD's Songs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

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.

From THOMAS BATESON's First Set of English Madrigals, 1604.

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.

From JOHN FARMER's First Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

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?

From THOMAS WEELKES' Madrigals of Five and Six Parts, 1600.

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.

From JOHN DOWLAND's First Book of Songs or Airs, 1597.

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 changed, Though delight from desert Be estranged. Farewell!

From THOMAS CAMPION's Two Books of Airs (circ. 1613).

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; Blessed 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.

From JOHN DOWLAND's Second Book of Songs or Airs, 1600.

Woeful Heart, with grief oppressed! Since my fortunes most distressed From my joys hath me removed, Follow those sweet eyes adored! Those sweet eyes wherein are stored All my pleasures best beloved.

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.

From THOMAS GREAVES' Songs of Sundry Kinds, 1604.

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.

From FARMER's First Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

You blessed 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.

From THOMAS MORLEY's First Book of Ballets, 1595.

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.)

From THOMAS BATESON's First Set of English Madrigals, 1604.

Your shining eyes and golden hair, Your lily-rosed 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.



NOTES.

Page 3.

Thomas Weelkes was organist of Winchester College in 1600, and of Chichester Cathedral in 1608. His first collection, "Madrigals to three, four, five, or six voices," was published in 1597. Here first appeared the verses (fraudulently ascribed, in "The Passionate Pilgrim," 1599, to Shakespeare), "My flocks feed not." In 1598 Weelkes published "Ballets and Madrigals to five voices," which was followed in 1600 by "Madrigals of five and six parts." Prefixed to the last-named work is the following dedicatory epistle:—

"To the truly noble, virtuous, and honorable, my very good Lord Henry, Lord Winsor, Baron of Bradenham.

My Lord, in the College at Winchester, where I live, I have heard learned men say that some philosophers have mistaken the soul of man for an harmony: let the precedent of their error be a privilege for mine. I see not, if souls do not partly consist of music, how it should come to pass that so noble a spirit as your's, so perfectly tuned to so perpetual a tenor of excellence as it is, should descend to the notice of a quality lying single in so low a personage as myself. But in music the base part is no disgrace to the best ears' attendancy. I confess my conscience is untoucht with any other arts, and I hope my confession is unsuspected; many of us musicians think it as much praise to be somewhat more than musicians as it is for gold to be somewhat more than gold, and if Jack Cade were alive, yet some of us might live, unless we should think, as the artisans in the Universities of Poland and Germany think, that the Latin tongue comes by reflection. I hope your Lordship will pardon this presumption of mine; the rather, because I know before Nobility I am to deal sincerely; and this small faculty of mine, because it is alone in me, and without the assistance of other more confident sciences, is the more to be favoured and the rather to be received into your honour's protection; so shall I observe you with as humble and as true an heart, as he whose knowledge is as large as the world's creation, and as earnestly pray for you to the world's Creator.

Your Honor's in all humble service, THOMAS WEELKES."

In 1608 appeared Weelkes' last work, "Airs or Fantastic Spirits for three voices," a collection of lively and humorous ditties. Oliphant writes:—"For originality of ideas, and ingenuity of construction in part writing, (I allude more especially to his ballets,) Weelkes in my opinion leaves all other composers of his time far behind." The verses in Weelkes' song-books are never heavy or laboured; they are always bright, cheerful, and arch.

Page 3. Robert Jones was a famous performer on the lute. He had a share in the management of the theatre in the Whitefriars (Collier's "Annals of the Stage," i. 395). His works are of the highest rarity. The delightful lyrics in Jones' song-books have escaped the notice of all the editors of anthologies.

Page 4. Thomas Morley, who was a pupil of William Byrd, was the author of the first systematic treatise on music published in this country—"A plain and easy Introduction to practical Music," 1597, quaintly set down in form of a dialogue. The verses in his collections are mere airy trifles, and hardly bear to be separated from the music.

"About the maypole new," &c., is a translation of some Italian lines, beginning—

"Al suon d'una sampogn' e d'una citera, Sopra l'herbette floride Dansava Tirsi con l'amata Cloride," &c.

In Morley's "Canzonets to three Voices," 1593, we have the following pleasant description of the preparations for a country wedding:—

"Arise, get up, my dear, make haste, begone thee: Lo! where the bride, fair Daphne, tarries on thee. Hark! O hark! yon merry maidens squealing Spice-cakes, sops-in-wine are a-dealing. Run, then run apace And get a bride-lace And gilt rosemary branch the while there yet is catching And then hold fast for fear of old snatching.

Alas! my dear, why weep ye? O fear not that, dear love, the next day keep we. List, yon minstrels! hark how fine they firk it, And how the maidens jerk it! With Kate and Will, Tom and Gill, Now a skip, Then a trip, Finely fet aloft, There again as oft; Hey ho! blessed holiday! All for Daphne's wedding day!"

Page 9. John Wilbye is styled by Oliphant "the first of madrigal writers." He published his "First Set of English Madrigals" in 1598, and his "Second Set" in 1609. The Second Set was dedicated to the unfortunate Lady Arabella Stuart. The composer concludes his dedicatory epistle with the prayer, "I beseech the Almighty to make you in all the passages of your life truly happy, as you are in the world's true opinion, virtuous." In the very year when the epistle was written the gifted patroness of art and learning was accused before the Privy Council and ordered to be kept in close confinement. She made her escape, but after a few hours was captured at sea in her flight to Dunkirk, brought back to London, and committed to the Tower, where she died of a broken heart in 1615. It is pleasant to think that the song-book dedicated to her honour may have cheered her in the long hours of solitude. The collection consists chiefly of love-lyrics; but such verses as "Happy, O happy he," &c. (p. 37) and "Draw on, sweet Night" (p. 21), must have been carefully cherished by the poor captive.

Page 9. "April is in my mistress' face."—Compare Robert Greene's verses in "Perimedes, the Blacksmith," 1588:—

"Fair is my love, for April in her face, Her lovely breasts September claims his part, And lordly July in her eyes takes place: But cold December dwelleth in her heart: Blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire, Accurs'd that month that hindereth my desire!"

Page 11. "The Urchins' Dance" is from the anonymous play "The Maid's Metamorphosis," 1600. In the same play are the following dainty verses;—

"1 Fairy. I do come about the copse Leaping upon flowers' tops; Then I get upon a fly, She carries me above the sky, And trip and go!

2 Fairy. When a dew-drop falleth down And doth light upon my crown, Then I shake my head and skip And about I trip.

3 Fairy. When I feel a girl a-sleep, Underneath her frock I peep, There to sport, and there I play; Then I bite her like a flea, And about I skip."

Thomas Ravenscroft, compiler of the "Brief Discourse," won his spurs at a very early age. He took his degree of Bachelor of Music before he had reached his fifteenth year, as we learn from some commendatory verses prefixed to the "Brief Discourse;"—