Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age Part 8

O Love, I live and die in thee!

Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me.

Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks, Yet thou dost hope when I despair; My heart for thy unkindness breaks; Thou say'st thou can'st my harms repair, And when I hope thou mak'st me hope in vain; Yet for redress thou let'st me still complain.

Can Love be rich, and yet I want?

Is Love my judge, and yet am I condemned?

Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant; Thou made a G.o.d, and yet thy power contemned!

That I do live, it is thy power; That I desire it is thy worth.

If love doth make men's lives too sour, Let me not love, nor live henceforth!

Die shall my hopes, but not my faith, That you, that of my fall may hearers be, May hear Despair, which truly saith "I was more true to Love, than Love to me."

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

If thou long'st so much to learn, sweet boy, what 'tis to love, Do but fix thy thoughts on me and thou shalt quickly prove: Little suit at first shall win Way to thy abashed desire, But then will I hedge thee in, Salamander-like, with fire.

With thee dance I will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance bear; We the grovy hills will climb and play the wantons there; Other whiles we'll gather flowers, Lying dallying on the gra.s.s; And thus our delightful hours, Full of waking dreams, shall pa.s.s.

When thy joys were thus at height, my love should turn from thee, Old acquaintance then should grow as strange, as strange might be: Twenty rivals thou shouldst find, Breaking all their hearts for me, While to all I'll prove more kind And more forward than to thee.

Thus thy silly youth, enraged, would soon my love defy, But, alas, poor soul, too late! clipt wings can never fly.

Those sweet hours which we had past, Called to thy mind, thy heart would burn; And couldst thou fly ne'er so fast, They would make thee straight return.

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets and Songs_, 1588.

If women could be fair and never fond, Or that their beauty might continue still, I would not marvel though they made men bond By service long to purchase their goodwill: But when I see how frail these creatures are, I laugh that men forget themselves so far.

To mark what choice they make and how they change, How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still; And how, like haggards wild, about they range, And scorning reason follow after will![6]

Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist And let them fly (fair fools!) which way they list?

Yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both, To pa.s.s the time when nothing else can please: And train them on to yield by subtle oath The sweet content that gives such humour ease: And then we say, when we their follies try, "To play with fools, O, what a fool was I!"

[6] So Oliphant.--Old ed., "Scorning after reason to follow will."

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

In crystal towers and turrets richly set With glitt'ring gems that s.h.i.+ne against the sun, In regal rooms of jasper and of jet, Content of mind not always likes to won;[7]

But oftentimes it pleaseth her to stay In simple cotes enclosed with walls of clay.

[7] Dwell.

From JOHN COPRARIO's _Funeral Tears, etc._, 1606.

In darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be, The roof despair to bar all cheerful light from me, The walls of marble black that moistened still shall weep, My music h.e.l.lish jarring sounds to banish friendly sleep: Thus wedded to my woes, and bedded in my tomb O let me dying live till death doth come.

My dainties grief shall be, and tears my poisoned wine, My sighs the air through which my panting heart shall pine, My robes my mind shall suit exceeding blackest night, My study shall be tragic thoughts sad fancy to delight, Pale ghosts and frightful shades shall my acquaintance be: O thus, my hapless joy, I haste to thee.

From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594.

In midst of woods or pleasant grove, Where all sweet birds do sing, Methought I heard so rare a sound Which made the heavens to ring.

The charm was good, the noise full sweet, Each bird did play his part; And I admired to hear the same, Joy sprang into my heart.

The black bird made the sweetest sound, Whose tunes did far excel; Full pleasantly, and most profound Was all things placed well.

Thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird, Done with so good a grace, Extolls thy name, prefers the same Abroad in every place.

Thy music grave, bedecked well With sundry points of skill, Bewrays thy knowledge excellent Ingrafted in thy will.

My tongue shall speak, my pen shall write In praise of thee to tell; The sweetest bird that ever was, In friendly sort farewell.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.

In pride of May The fields are gay, The birds do sweetly sing. Fa la la!

So Nature would That all things should With joy begin the spring. Fa la la!

Then, Lady dear, Do you appear In beauty like the spring: Fa la la!

I dare well say The birds that day More cheerfully will sing. Fa la la!

From ROBERT JONES's _Musical Dream_, 1609.

{Pheugein de ton Erota kenos ponos.}--_Archias_.

In Sherwood lived stout Robin Hood, An archer great, none greater, His bow and shafts were sure and good, Yet Cupid's were much better; Robin could shoot at many a hart and miss, Cupid at first could hit a heart of his.

Hey, jolly Robin Hood, ho jolly Robin Hood, Love finds out me As well as thee, To follow me to the green-wood.

A n.o.ble thief was Robin Hood, Wise was he could deceive him; Yet Marian in his bravest mood Could of his heart bereave him: No greater thief lies hidden under skies, Than beauty closely lodged in women's eyes.

Hey, jolly Robin, &c.

An outlaw was this Robin Hood, His life free and unruly, Yet to fair Marian bound he stood And love's debt paid her duly: Whom curb of strictest law could not hold in, Love[8] to obedience with a wink could win.

Hey, jolly Robin, &c.

Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood, Leave we the woods behind us, Love-pa.s.sions must not be withstood, Love everywhere will find us.

I lived in field and town, and so did he; I got me to the woods, Love followed me.

Hey, jolly Robin, &c.

[8] Old ed.,--"Love with obeyednes and a winke could winne."

From MICHAEL ESTE's _Madrigals of three, four and five parts_, 1604. (By Nicholas Breton. Originally published in 1591.)

In the merry month of May, On a morn by break of day, Forth I walk'd by the wood-side, Whereas May was in her pride: There I spyed all alone Phillida and Corydon.