Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Look how the snowy mountains Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
But my sun's heavenly eyes, View not your weeping, That now lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets; Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at ev'n he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!
Melt not in weeping, While she lies sleeping, Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voices_, 1598.
Welcome, sweet pleasure, My wealth and treasure; To haste our playing There's no delaying, No no!
This mirth delights me When sorrow frights me.
Then sing we all Fa la la la la!
Sorrow, content thee, Mirth must prevent thee: Though much thou grievest Thou none relievest.
No no!
Joy, come delight me, Though sorrow spite me.
Then sing we all Fa la la la la!
Grief is disdainful, Sottish and painful: Then wait on pleasure, And lose no leisure.
No no!
Heart's ease it lendeth And comfort sendeth.
Then sing we all Fa la la la la!
From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594.
Were I a king, I might command content; Were I obscure, unknown should be my cares: And were I dead, no thoughts should me torment, Nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears.
A doubtful choice, of three things one to crave; A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book Of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me, But thy faults I curious find and speak because I love thee; Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.
Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than th' obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting; Friends.h.i.+p is the Gla.s.s of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.
While I use of eyes enjoy and inward light of reason, Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season; Hidden mischief to conceal in state and love is treason.
From _Pammelia_, 1609.
What hap had I to marry a shrow!
For she hath given me many a blow, And how to please her alack I do not know.
From morn to even her tongue ne'er lies, Sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries, Yet I can scarce keep her talents[23] from mine eyes.
If I go abroad and late come in,-- "Sir knave," saith she, "Where have you been?"
And do I well or ill she claps me on the skin.
[23] Old form of "talons."
From ORLANDO GIBBONS' _First Set Of Madrigals_, 1612. (Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)
What is our life? a play of pa.s.sion: Our mirth? the music of division.
Our mothers' wombs the tyring-houses be Where we are drest for this short comedy: Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is That sits and marks whoe'er doth act amiss: Our graves, that hide us from the searching sun, Are like drawn curtains when the play is done: Thus march we playing to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest,--that's no jest.
From JOHN WILBYE's _Madrigals_, 1598.
What needeth all this travail and turmoiling, Short'ning the life's sweet pleasure To seek this far-fetched treasure In those hot climates under Ph[oe]bus broiling?
O fools, can you not see a traffic nearer In my sweet lady's face, where Nature showeth Whatever treasure eye sees or heart knoweth?
Rubies and diamonds dainty And orient pearls such plenty, Coral and ambergreece sweeter and dearer Than which the South Seas or Moluccas lend us, Or either Indies, East or West, do send us!
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs_, 1588.
What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice Than herdsmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice, And fortune's fate not fearing Sing sweet in summer morning?
Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful, It is to kneel and wait On favourite presumptuous Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.
All day their flocks each tendeth; At night, they take their rest; More quiet than who sendeth His s.h.i.+p into the East, Where gold and pearl are plenty; But getting, very dainty.
For lawyers and their pleading, They 'steem it not a straw; They think that honest meaning Is of itself a law: Whence conscience judgeth plainly, They spend no money vainly.
O happy who thus liveth!
Not caring much for gold; With clothing which sufficeth To keep him from the cold.
Though poor and plain his diet Yet merry it is, and quiet.
From JOHN DOWLAND's _Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs_, 1603.
What poor astronomers are they, Take women's eyes for stars!
And set their thoughts in battle 'ray, To fight such idle wars; When in the end they shall approve 'Tis but a jest drawn out of Love.
And Love itself is but a jest Devised by idle heads, To catch young Fancies in the nest, And lay them in fool's beds; That being hatched in beauty's eyes They may be fledged ere they be wise.
But yet it is a sport to see, How Wit will run on wheels!
While Wit cannot persuaded be, With that which Reason feels, That women's eyes and stars are odd And Love is but a feigned G.o.d!
But such as will run mad with Will, I cannot clear their sight But leave them to their study still, To look where is no light!
Till time too late, we make them try, They study false Astronomy!
From THOMAS FORD's _Music of Sundry Kinds_, 1607.
What then is love, sings Corydon, Since Phyllida is grown so coy?
A flattering gla.s.s to gaze upon, A busy jest, a serious toy, A flower still budding, never blown, A scanty dearth in fullest store Yielding least fruit where most is sown.
