Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age Part 16

[13] Frighten.

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

Silly boy! 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day s.h.i.+nes clearly; Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly.

Shortly wilt thou mourn when all thy pleasures be bereaved, Little knows he how to love that never was deceived.

This is thy first maiden-flame that triumphs yet unstained, All is artless now you speak, not one word is feigned; All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed, But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath his Cressid.

Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected, And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected; Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holy And with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly.

Yet be just and constant still, Love may beget a wonder, Not unlike a summer's frost or winter's fatal thunder: He that holds his sweetheart true unto his day of dying, Lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the envying.

From GILES FARNABY's _Canzonets_, 1598.

Simkin said that Sis was fair, And that he meant to love her; He set her on his ambling mare,-- All this he did to prove her.

When they came home Sis floted cream And poured it through a strainer, But sware that Simkin should have none Because he did disdain her.

From THOMAS FORD's _Music Of Sundry Kinds_, 1607.

Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye, If now I be disdained I wish my heart had never known ye.

What? I that loved and you that liked shall we begin to wrangle?

No, no no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle.

If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me Or if my hands had strayed but a touch, then justly might you leave me.

I asked you leave, you bade me love; is't now a time to chide me?

No no no, I'll love you still what fortune e'er betide me.

The sun whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder, And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder, Where beauty moves, and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me There, O there! where'er I go I'll leave my heart behind me.

From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets_, 1595.

Sing we and chant it While love doth grant it.

Fa la la!

Not long youth lasteth, And old age hasteth.

Fa la la!

Now is best leisure To take our pleasure.

Fa la la!

All things invite us Now to delight us.

Fa la la!

Hence care be packing, No mirth be lacking.

Fa la la!

Let spare no treasure To live in pleasure.

Fa la la!

From THOMAS BATESON's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1604.

Sister, awake! close not your eyes!

The day her light discloses, And the bright morning doth arise Out of her bed of roses.

See, the clear sun, the world's bright eye, In at our window peeping: Lo! how he blusheth to espy Us idle wenches sleeping.

Therefore, awake! make haste, I say, And let us, without staying, All in our gowns of green so gay Into the park a-maying.

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

Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!

For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?

It shall suffice me here to sit and see Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke: What sight can more content a lover's mind Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?

My words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps, Though guilty much of wrong done to my love; And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps: Dreams often more than waking pa.s.sions move.

Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee: That she in peace may wake and pity me.

From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.

So light is love, in matchless beauty s.h.i.+ning, When he revisits Cypris' hallowed bowers, Two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining, Can draw his chariot midst the Paphian flowers, Lightness in love! how ill it fitteth!

So heavy on my heart he sitteth.

From WILLIAM CORKINE's _Airs_, 1610.

Some can flatter, some can feign, Simple truth shall plead for me; Let not beauty truth disdain, Truth is even as fair as she.

But since pairs must equal prove, Let my strength her youth oppose, Love her beauty, faith her love; On even terms so may we close.

Cork or lead in equal weight Both one just proportion yield, So may breadth be peis'd[14] with height, Steepest mount with plainest field.

Virtues have not all one kind, Yet all virtues merit be, Divers virtues are combined; Differing so, deserts agree.

Let then love and beauty meet, Making one divine concent Constant as the sounds and sweet, That enchant the firmament.

[14] Balanced.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.