Tudor and Stuart Love Songs Part 13

TO ROSES IN CASTARA'S BREAST.

Ye blus.h.i.+ng Virgins happy are In the chaste Nunn'ry of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow, How rich a perfume do ye yield?

In some close garden, cowslips so Are sweeter than in th' open field.

In those white Cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath, Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room, Your glorious sepulchre shall be; There wants no marble for a tomb, Whose breast hath marble been to me.

William Habington.

THOU PRETTY BIRD.

Thou pretty bird, how do I see Thy silly state and mine agree!

For thou a prisoner art; So is my heart.

Thou sing'st to her, and so do I address My music to her ear that's merciless; But herein doth the difference lie,-- That thou art graced; so am not I; Thou singing livest, and I must singing die.

John Danyel.

ONCE I LOV'D A MAIDEN FAIR.

Once I lov'd a maiden fair, But she did deceive me; She with Venus might compare, In my mind, believe me: She was young, and among All our maids the sweetest.

Now I say, ah! well-a-day!

Brightest hopes are fleetest.

I the wedding ring had got, Wedding clothes provided, Sure the church would bind a knot Ne'er to be divided: Married we straight must be, She her vows had plighted; Vows, alas! as frail as gla.s.s: All my hopes are blighted.

Maidens wav'ring and untrue, Many a heart have broken; Sweetest lips the world e'er knew, Falsest words have spoken.

Fare thee well, faithless girl, I'll not sorrow for thee; Once I held thee dear as pearl, Now I do abhor thee.

Temp. Jas. I. (condensed by T. Oxenford).

I PR'YTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART.

I pr'ythee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine; For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie; To find it were in vain, For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together?

O love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our b.r.e.a.s.t.s you sever?

But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell love, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart As much as she hath mine.

Sir John Suckling.

ORSAMES' SONG.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!

Sir John Suckling.

SINCE FIRST I SAW YOUR FACE.

Since first I saw your face I resolved To honour and renown you; If now I be disdained I wish my heart had never known you.

What! I that loved, and you that liked, Shall we begin to wrangle?

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

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, oh! there, where'er I go I leave my heart behind me.

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?