Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age Part 12

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 G.o.d or nature hath a.s.signed.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 hea.r.s.e 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, Pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d 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.