Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age Part 3

O come, and take from me The pain of being deprived of thee!

Thou all sweetness dost enclose, Like a little world of bliss; Beauty guards thy looks, the rose In them pure and eternal is: Come, then, and make thy flight As swift to me as heavenly light!

From THOMAS FORD's _Music of Sundry Kinds_, 1607.

Come, Phyllis, come into these bowers: Here shelter is from sharpest showers, Cool gales of wind breathe in these shades, Danger none this place invades; Here sit and note the chirping birds Pleading my love in silent words.

Come, Phyllis, come, bright heaven's eye Cannot upon thy beauty pry; Glad Echo in distinguished voice Naming thee will here rejoice; Then come and hear her merry lays Crowning thy name with lasting praise.

From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.

Come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing, Now sigh and groan!

Dead is my Love, my Hope, my Joy, my Spring; Dead, dead, and gone!

O, She that was your Summer's Queen, Your days' delight, Is gone and will no more be seen; O, cruel spite!

Break all your pipes that wont to sound With pleasant cheer, And cast yourselves upon the ground To wail my Dear!

Come, shepherd swains, come, nymphs, and all a-row To help me cry: Dead is my Love, and, seeing She is so, Lo, now I die!

From _Two Books of Airs_, by THOMAS CAMPION (circ. 1613).

Come, you pretty false-eyed wanton, Leave your crafty smiling!

Think you to escape me now With slipp'ry words beguiling?

No; you mocked me th' other day; When you got loose, you fled away; But, since I have caught you now, I'll clip your wings for flying: Smoth'ring kisses fast I'll heap And keep you so from crying.

Sooner may you count the stars And number hail down-pouring, Tell the osiers of the Thames, Or Goodwin sands devouring, Than the thick-showered kisses here Which now thy tired lips must bear.

Such a harvest never was So rich and full of pleasure, But 'tis spent as soon as reaped, So trustless is lore's treasure.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Could my heart more tongues employ Than it harbours thoughts of grief, It is now so far from joy That it scarce could ask relief: Truest hearts by deeds unkind To despair are most inclined.

Happy minds that can redeem Their engagements how they please, That no joys or hopes esteem Half so precious as their ease: Wisdom should prepare men so, As if they did all foreknow.

Yet no art or caution can Grown affections easily change; Use is such a lord of man That he brooks worst what is strange: Better never to be blest Than to lose all at the best.

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Songs, and Sonnets_, 1611.

Crowned with flowers I saw fair Amaryllis By Thyrsis sit, hard by a fount of crystal, And with her hand more white than snow or lilies, On sand she wrote _My faith shall be immortal_: And suddenly a storm of wind and weather Blew all her faith and sand away together.

From THOMAS RAVENSCROFT's _Brief Discourse_, 1614.

THE FAIRIES' DANCE.

Dare you haunt our hallow'd green?

None but fairies here are seen.

Down and sleep, Wake and weep, Pinch him black, and pinch him blue, That seeks to steal a lover true!

When you come to hear us sing, Or to tread our fairy ring, Pinch him black, and pinch him blue!

O thus our nails shall handle you!

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Dear, if I with guile would gild a true intent, Heaping flatt'ries that in heart were never meant, Easily could I then obtain What now in vain I force; Falsehood much doth gain, Truth yet holds the better course.

Love forbid that through dissembling I should thrive, Or, in praising you, myself of truth deprive!

Let not your high thoughts debase A simple truth in me; Great is Beauty's grace, Truth is yet as fair as she.

Praise is but the wind of pride if it exceeds, Wealth prized in itself no outward value needs: Fair you are, and pa.s.sing fair; You know it, and 'tis true; Yet let none despair But to find as fair as you.

From JOHN DOWLAND's _First Book of Songs or Airs_, 1597.

Dear, if you change, I'll never choose again; Sweet, if you shrink, I'll never think of love; Fair, if you fail, I'll judge all beauty vain; Wise, if too weak, more wits I'll never prove.

Dear, sweet, fair, wise! change, shrink, nor be not weak; And, on my faith, my faith shall never break.

Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn; Heaven her bright stars through earth's dim globe shall move; Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born; Air, made to shine, as black as h.e.l.l shall prove: Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view, Ere I prove false to faith or strange to you.

From THOMAS MORLEY's _Canzonets_, 1593.

Do you not know how Love lost first his seeing?

Because with me once gazing On those fair eyes where all powers have their being, She with her beauty blazing, Which death might have revived, Him of his sight and me of heart deprived.

From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.

Draw on, sweet Night, best friend unto those cares That do arise from painful melancholy; My life so ill through want of comfort fares, That unto thee I consecrate it wholly.

Sweet Night, draw on; my griefs, when they be told To shades and darkness, find some ease from paining; And while thou all in silence dost enfold, I then shall have best time for my complaining.

From HENRY YOULL's _Canzonets to three Voices_, 1608.

Each day of thine, sweet month of May, Love makes a solemn holyday: I will perform like duty, Since thou resemblest every way Astraea, Queen of Beauty.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Every dame affects good fame, whate'er her doings be, But true praise is Virtue's bays, which none may wear but she.

Borrowed guise fits not the wise, a simple look is best; Native grace becomes a face though ne'er so rudely drest.

Now such new-found toys are sold these women to disguise, That before the year grows old the newest fashion dies.

Dames of yore contended more in goodness to exceed, Than in pride to be envied for that which least they need.

Little lawn then serve[d] the p.a.w.n, if p.a.w.n at all there were; Homespun thread and household bread then held out all the year.