Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age Part 21

Thrice blessed be the giver That gave sweet love that golden quiver, And live he long among the G.o.ds 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 p.r.i.c.kling 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 a.s.s'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 G.o.d 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 a.s.signed to Robert Deveureux, Earl of Ess.e.x.)

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, a.s.surance, 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 hea.r.s.e, 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?