Tudor and Stuart Love Songs - LightNovelsOnl.com
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LOVE NOW, FOR ROSES FADE.
Look, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown rose, The image of thy blush, and summer's honour!
Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose That full of beauty Time bestows upon her: No sooner spreads her glory in the air, But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; She then is scorn'd, that late adorn'd the fair.
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine!
No April can revive thy withered flowers, Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now: Swift speedy Time, feathered with flying hours, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, But love now, whilst thou may'st be loved again.
Samuel Daniel.
EARLY LOVE.
Ah! I remember well (and how can I But evermore remember well) when first Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt; when as we sat and sigh'd And look'd upon each other, and conceived Not what we ail'd--yet something we did ail; And yet were well, and yet we were not well, And what was our disease we could not tell.
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thus In that first garden of our simpleness We spent our childhood. But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how then Would she with graver looks, with sweet, stern brow, Check my presumption and my forwardness; Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show What she would have me, yet not have me know.
Samuel Daniel.
LOVE IS A SICKNESS.
Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that most with cutting grows, Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies, If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Heigh-ho!
Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies, If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Heigh-ho!
Samuel Daniel.
THE Pa.s.sIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, and hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies: A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we'll pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning.
If these delights thy mind may move, Come live with me and be my love.
Christopher Marlowe.
[See "The Shepherdess's Reply to The Pa.s.sionate Pilgrim," page 22.]
LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE.
Were I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, My love should s.h.i.+ne on you like to the sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you, Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
J. Sylvester.
A PARTING; OR, LOVE'S LAST CHANCE.
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part: Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so clearly I myself can free.
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And, when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.
Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Pa.s.sion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes; Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.
Michael Drayton.
WHO IS SILVIA?
Who is Silvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her?
