Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age Part 15

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 s.h.a.ggy 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 pa.s.s, 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 hoa.r.s.e 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, a.s.sails 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!