Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age - LightNovelsOnl.com
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So so! so so! fine English days!
When false play's no reproach: For he that doth the coachman praise, May safely use the coach.
Farra diddle dino; This is idle fino.
From ROBERT JONES's _Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs_ (1608).
Happy he Who, to sweet home retired, Shuns glory so admired, And to himself lives free, Whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skies Falls down with foul disgrace before he rise.
Let who will The active life commend And all his travels bend Earth with his fame to fill: Such fame, so forced, at last dies with his death, Which life maintain'd by others' idle breath.
My delights, To dearest home confined, Shall there make good my mind Not aw'd with fortune's spites: High trees heaven blasts, winds shake and honors[5] fell, When lowly plants long time in safety dwell.
All I can, My worldly strife shall be They one day say of me 'He died a good old man': On his sad soul a heavy burden lies Who, known to all, unknown to himself dies.
[5] Qy. "hammers"?
From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.
Happy, O! happy he, who not affecting The endless toils attending worldly cares, With mind reposed, all discontents rejecting, In silent peace his way to heaven prepares, Deeming this life a scene, the world a stage Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.
From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's _First Set Of Madrigals_, 1613.
Have I found her? O rich finding!
G.o.ddess-like for to behold, Her fair tresses seemly binding In a chain of pearl and gold.
Chain me, chain me, O most fair, Chain me to thee with that hair!
From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594.
Heigh ho! chill go to plough no more!
Sit down and take thy rest; Of golden groats I have full store To flaunt it with the best.
But I love and I love, and who thinks you?
The finest la.s.s that e'er you knew, Which makes me sing when I should cry Heigh ho! for love I die.
From JOHN MAYNARD's _Twelve Wonders of the World_, 1611.
THE BACHELOR.
How many things as yet Are dear alike to me!
The field, the horse, the dog, Love, arms, or liberty.
I have no wife as yet That I may call mine own; I have no children yet That by my name are known.
Yet, if I married were, I would not wish to thrive If that I could not tame The veriest shrew alive.
From THOMAS FORD's _Music of Sundry Kinds_, 1607.
How shall I then describe my Love?
When all men's skilful art Is far inferior to her worth, To praise the unworthiest part.
She's chaste in looks, mild in her speech, In actions all discreet, Of nature loving, pleasing most, In virtue all complete.
And for her voice a Philomel, Her lips may all lips scorn; No sun more clear than is her eye, In brightest summer morn.
A mind wherein all virtues rest And take delight to be, And where all virtues graft themselves In that most fruitful tree:
A tree that India doth not yield, Nor ever yet was seen, Where buds of virtue always spring, And all the year grow green.
That country's blest wherein she grows, And happy is that rock From whence she springs: but happiest he That grafts in such a stock.
From HENRY LICHFILD's _First Set of Madrigals_, 1613.
I always loved to call my lady Rose, For in her cheeks roses do sweetly glose, And from her lips she such sweet odours threw As roses do 'gainst Ph[oe]bus' morning-view: But when I thought to pull't, hope was bereft me,-- My rose was gone and naught but p.r.i.c.kles left me.
From _Melismata_, 1611.
A WOOING SONG OF A YEOMAN OF KENT'S SON.
I have house and land in Kent, And if you'll love me, love me now; Twopence-halfpenny is my rent, I cannot come every day to woo.
Chorus. _Twopence-halfpenny is his rent, And he cannot come every day to woo._
Ich am my vather's eldest zonne, My mother eke doth love me well, For ich can bravely clout my shoone, And ich full well can ring a bell.
Chorus. _For he can bravely clout his shoone, And he full well can ring a bell._
My vather he gave me a hog, My mouther she gave me a zow; I have a G.o.d-vather dwels thereby, And he on me bestowed a plow.
Chorus. _He has a G.o.d-vather dwells thereby, And he on him bestowed a plough._
One time I gave thee a paper of pins, Another time a tawdry-lace; And if thou wilt not grant me love, In truth ich die bevore thy face.
Chorus. _And if thou wilt not grant his love, In truth he'll die bevore thy vace._
Ich have been twice our Whitson-lord, Ich have had ladies many vair, And eke thou hast my heart in hold And in my mind zeems pa.s.sing rare.
Chorus. _And eke thou hast his heart in hold And in his mind seems pa.s.sing rare._
Ich will put on my best white slops And ich will wear my yellow hose, And on my head a good grey hat, And in't ich stick a lovely rose.
Chorus. _And on his head a good grey hat, And in't he'll stick a lovely rose._
Wherefore cease off, make no delay, And if you'll love me, love me now; Or else ich zeek zome oderwhere, For I cannot come every day to woo.
Chorus. _Or else he'll zeek zome oderwhere, For he cannot come every day to woo._
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs of Sadness and Piety_, 1588.
I joy not in no earthly bliss, I force not Cr[oe]sus' wealth a straw; For care I know not what it is I fear not Fortune's fatal law: My mind is such as may not move For beauty bright nor force of love.
