Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age Part 13

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 a.s.surance: 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 la.s.s Upon the greeny gra.s.s.

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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l: 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 l.u.s.ty 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 pa.s.seth 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.