Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age - LightNovelsOnl.com
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But th' attires of women now wear out both house and land; That the wives in silk may flow, at ebb the good men stand.
Once again, Astraea! then from heaven to earth descend, And vouchsafe in their behalf these errors to amend.
Aid from heaven must make all even, things are so out of frame; For let man strive all he can, he needs must please his dame.
Happy man, content that gives and what he gives enjoys!
Happy dame, content that lives and breaks no sleep for toys!
From FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599.
Fair Phyllis I saw sitting all alone, Feeding her flock near to the mountain-side; The shepherds knew not whither she was gone, But after her lover Amyntas hied.
Up and down he wandered, whilst she was missing; When he found her, oh then they fell a-kissing!
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs_, 1588.
Farewell, false Love, the oracle of lies, A mortal foe and enemy to rest, An envious boy from whom all cares arise, A b.a.s.t.a.r.d vile, a beast with rage possest; A way of error, a temple full of treason, In all effects contrary unto reason.
A poison'd serpent cover'd all with flowers, Mother of sighs and murderer of repose; A sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showers As moisture lend to every grief that grows; A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, A gilded hook that holds a poison'd bait.
A fortress foiled which Reason did defend, A Siren song, a fever of the mind, A maze wherein affection finds no end, A raging cloud that runs before the wind; A substance like the shadow of the sun, A goal of grief for which the wisest run.
A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, A path that leads to peril and mishap, A true retreat of sorrow and despair, An idle boy that sleeps in Pleasure's lap; A deep distrust of that which certain seems, A hope of that which Reason doubtful deems.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
Farewell, my joy!
Adieu, my love and pleasure!
To sport and toy We have no longer leisure.
Fa la la!
Farewell, adieu Until our next consorting!
Sweet love, be true!
And thus we end our sporting.
Fa la la!
From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs or Airs_, 1600.
Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new, Good pennyworths,--but money cannot move: I keep a fair but for the Fair to view,-- A beggar may be liberal of love.
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true, The heart is true.
Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again, My trifles come as treasures from my mind; It is a precious jewel to be plain; Sometimes in sh.e.l.l the orient'st pearls we find: Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
Of me a grain!
Within this pack pins, points, laces, and gloves, And divers toys fitting a country fair, But my heart, wherein duty serves and loves, Turtles and twins, court's brood, a heavenly pair-- Happy the heart that thinks of no removes!
Of no removes!
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Fire that must flame is with apt fuel fed, Flowers that will thrive in sunny soil are bred: How can a heart feel heat that no hope finds?
Or can he love on whom no comfort s.h.i.+nes?
Fair, I confess there's pleasure in your sight; Sweet, you have power, I grant, of all delight; But what is all to me if I have none?
Churl that you are t'enjoy such wealth alone!
Prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you, Yet in your looks a heavenly form I view; Then will I pray again, hoping to find, As well as in your looks, heaven in your mind.
Saint of my heart, queen of my life and love, O let my vows thy loving spirit move!
Let me no longer mourn through thy disdain, But with one touch of grace cure all my pain!
From JOHN WILBYE's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1598.
Flora gave me fairest flowers, None so fair in Flora's treasure; These I placed on Phyllis' bowers, She was pleased, and she my pleasure: Smiling meadows seem to say, "Come, ye wantons, here to play."
From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.
Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!
There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love: But, if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again.
All that I sang still to her praise did tend, Still she was first, still she my songs did end; Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy: Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Airs_, 1601.
{ouk esti gemas hostis ou cheimazetai, legousi pantes; kai gamousin eidotes.} _Anthol. Graec._
Fond wanton youths make love a G.o.d Which after proveth Age's rod; Their youth, their time, their wit, their art They spend in seeking of their smart; And, which of follies is the chief, They woo their woe, they wed their grief.
All find it so who wedded are, Love's sweets, they find, enfold sour care; His pleasures pleasing'st in the eye, Which tasted once with loathing die: They find of follies 'tis the chief, Their woe to woo, to wed their grief.
If for their own content they choose Forthwith their kindred's love they lose; And if their kindred they content, For ever after they repent; O 'tis of all our follies chief, Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
In bed, what strifes are bred by day, Our puling wives do open lay; None friends, none foes we must esteem But whom they so vouchsafe to deem: O 'tis of all our follies chief, Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
Their smiles we want if aught they want, And either we their wills must grant Or die they will, or are with child; Their longings must not be beguiled: O 'tis of all our follies chief, Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
Foul wives are jealous, fair wives false, Marriage to either binds us thrall; Wherefore being bound we must obey And forced be perforce to say,-- Of all our bliss it is the chief, Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Songs of Sundry Natures_, 1589.
From Citheron the warlike boy is fled And smiling sits upon a Virgin's lap,-- Thereby to train poor misers to the trap, Whom Beauty draws with fancy to be fed: And when Desire with eager looks is led, Then from her eyes The arrow flies, Feather'd with flame, arm'd with a golden head.
