Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Her careless thoughts are freed of that flame Wherewith her thralls are scorched to the heart: If Love would so, would G.o.d the enchanting dart Might once return and burn from whence it came!
Not to deface of Beauty's work the frame, But by rebound It might be found What secret smart I suffer by the same.
If Love be just, then just is my desire; And if unjust, why is he call'd a G.o.d?
O G.o.d, O G.o.d, O Just! reserve thy rod To chasten those that from thy laws retire!
But choose aright (good Love! I thee require) The golden head, Not that of lead!
Her heart is frost and must dissolve by fire.
From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1600.
TO MASTER HUGH HOLLAND.
From Fame's desire, from Love's delight retired, In these sad groves an hermit's life I lead: And those false pleasures, which I once admired, With sad remembrance of my fall, I dread.
To birds, to trees, to earth, impart I this; For she less secret, and as senseless is.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!
Experience which repentance only brings, Doth bid me, now, my heart from Love estrange!
Love is disdained when it doth look at Kings; And Love low placed base and apt to change.
There Power doth take from him his liberty, Her[e] Want of Worth makes him in cradle die.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!
You men that give false wors.h.i.+p unto Love, And seek that which you never shall obtain; The endless work of Sisyphus you prove, Whose end is this, to know you strive in vain.
Hope and Desire, which now your idols be, You needs must lose, and feel Despair with me.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!
You woods, in you the fairest Nymphs have walked: Nymphs at whose sights all hearts did yield to love.
You woods, in whom dear lovers oft have talked, How do you now a place of mourning prove?
Wanstead! my Mistress saith this is the doom.
Thou art love's child-bed, nursery, and tomb.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Give Beauty all her right!
She's not to one form tied; Each shape yields fair delight Where her perfections bide: Helen, I grant, might pleasing be, And Ros'mond was as sweet as she.
Some the quick eye commends, Some swelling[4] lips and red; Pale looks have many friends, Through sacred sweetness bred: Meadows have flowers that pleasures move, Though roses are the flowers of love.
Free beauty is not bound To one unmoved clime; She visits every ground And favours every time.
Let the old loves with mine compare, My sovereign is as sweet and fair.
[4] Old ed. "smelling."
From JOHN DOWLAND's _First Book of Songs or Airs_, 1597.
Go crystal tears! like to the morning showers, And sweetly weep into thy lady's breast!
And as the dews revive the drooping flowers, So let your drops of pity be addrest!
To quicken up the thoughts of my desert, Which sleeps too sound whilst I from her depart.
Haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breath Dissolve the ice of her indurate heart!
Whose frozen rigour, like forgetful Death, Feels never any touch of my desert.
Yet sighs and tears to her I sacrifice Both from a spotless heart and patient eyes.
From EGERTON MS., 2013. _The Verses were set to Music by Dr. John Wilson._
Go, turn away those cruel eyes, For they have quite undone me; They used not so to tyrannize When first those glances won me.
But 'tis the custom of you men,-- False men thus to deceive us!
To love but till we love again, And then again to leave us.
Go, let alone my heart and me, Which thou hast thus affrighted!
I did not think I could by thee Have been so ill requited.
But now I find 'tis I must prove That men have no compa.s.sion; When we are won, you never love Poor women, but for fas.h.i.+on,
Do recompense my love with hate, And kill my heart! I'm sure Thou'lt one day say, when 'tis too late, Thou never hadst a truer.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Second Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Good men show! if you can tell, Where doth Human Pity dwell?
Far and near her I would seek, So vexed with sorrow is my breast.
"She," they say, "to all, is meek; And only makes th' unhappy blest."
Oh! if such a saint there be, Some hope yet remains for me: Prayer or sacrifice may gain From her implored grace, relief; To release me of my pain, Or at the least to ease my grief.
Young am I, and far from guile, The more is my woe the while: Falsehood, with a smooth disguise, My simple meaning hath abused: Casting mists before mine eyes, By which my senses are confused.
Fair he is, who vowed to me, That he only mine would be; But alas, his mind is caught With every gaudy bait he sees: And, too late, my flame is taught That too much kindness makes men freeze.
From me, all my friends are gone, While I pine for him alone; And not one will rue my case, But rather my distress deride: That I think, there is no place, Where Pity ever yet did bide.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Airs or Fantastic Spirits_, 1608.
Ha ha! ha ha! this world doth pa.s.s Most merrily, I'll be sworn; For many an honest Indian a.s.s Goes for an Unicorn.
Farra, diddle dino; This is idle fino.
Ty hye! ty hye! O sweet delight!
He tickles this age that can Call Tullia's ape a marmosyte And Leda's goose a swan.
Farra diddle dino; This is idle fino.
