Tudor and Stuart Love Songs Part 3

LOVE FOR LOVE.

Away with these self-loving lads Whom Cupid's arrow never glads!

Away, poor souls, that sigh and weep, In love of them that lie and sleep!

For Cupid is a merry G.o.d, And forceth none to kiss the rod.

Sweet Cupid's shafts, like Destiny, Do causeless good or ill decree; Desert is borne out of his bow, Reward upon his wing doth go: What fools are they that have not known That Love likes no laws but his own!

My songs, they be of Cynthia's praise: I wear her rings on holy days; On every tree I write her name, And every day I read the same: Where Honour Cupid's rival is, There miracles are seen of his.

If Cynthia crave her ring of me, I blot her name out of the tree; If doubt do darken things held dear, Then "farewell nothing," once a year: For many run, but one must win; Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.

The worth that worthiness should move Is love, which is the due of love; And love as well the shepherd can As can the mighty n.o.bleman:-- Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be; Yet, without love, nought worth to me.

Fulke-Greville, Lord Brooke.

CUPID AND MY CAMPASPE: APELLES' SONG.

Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses: Cupid paid.

He stakes his quiver, bows and arrows, His mother's doves and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how; With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin-- All these did my Campaspe win.

At last he set her both his eyes.-- She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love, has she done this to thee?

What shall, alas! become of me?

John Lyly.

A DITTY.

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

Sir Philip Sidney.

LOVE IS DEAD.

Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread; For Love is dead: All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain: Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And Faith fair scorn doth gain.

From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us!

Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said That Love is dead?

His death-bed, peac.o.c.k's folly; His winding-sheet is shame; His will, false-seeming holy; His sole executor, blame.

From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us!

Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart; Which epitaph containeth, _Her eyes were once his dart_.

From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us!

Alas, I lie; rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead; Love is not dead, but sleepeth In his unmatched mind, Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due deserts she find: Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a franzy, Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us!

Sir Philip Sidney.

HE THAT LOVES.

He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny.

Doth she chide thee? 'tis to show it That thy coldness makes her do it.

Is she silent, is she mute?

Silence fully grants thy suit.

Doth she pout and leave the room?

Then she goes to bid thee come.

Is she sick? why then be sure She invites thee to the cure.

Doth she cross thy suit with "No"?

Tus.h.!.+ she loves to hear thee woo.

Doth she call the faith of men In question? nay, she loves thee then, And if e'er she makes a blot, She's lost if that thou hit'st her not.

He that after ten denials Doth attempt no further trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.

Sir Philip Sidney.

LOVE'S WANTONNESS.

Love guards the roses of thy lips, And flies about them like a bee: If I approach, he forward skips, And if I kiss, he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And sleeps within their pretty s.h.i.+ne; And if I look, the boy will lower, And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.

Love works thy heart within his fire, And in my tears doth firm the same; And if I tempt, it will retire, And of my plaints doth make a game.

Love, let me cull her choicest flowers, And pity me, and calm her eye; Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers, Then will I praise thy deity, But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.

Thomas Lodge.