Tudor and Stuart Love Songs Part 4

ROSALINE.

Like to the clear in highest sphere Where all imperial glory s.h.i.+nes, Of selfsame colour is her hair Whether unfolded, or in twines: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink; The G.o.ds do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blus.h.i.+ng cloud That beautifies Aurora's face, Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity: Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprison'd lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes: Heigh ho, for Rosaline!

Her paps are centres of delight, Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same: Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch and sweet in view: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Nature herself her shape admires; The G.o.ds are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light: Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there's fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline; Heigh ho, my heart! would G.o.d that she were mine!

Thomas Lodge.

THE MAY QUEEN.

With fragrant flowers we strew the way, And make this our chief holiday; For though this clime were blest of yore, Yet was it never proud before.

O beauteous Queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy!

Now th' air is sweeter than sweet balm, And satyrs dance about the palm; Now earth, with verdure newly dight, Gives perfect signs of her delight.

O beauteous Queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy!

Now birds recall new harmony, And trees do whistle melody; Now everything that nature breeds, Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds.

O beauteous Queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy!

Thomas Watson.

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.

In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing, Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying, When anon by a woodside, Where as May was in his pride, I espied, all alone, Phillida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, G.o.d wot!

He would love, and she would not: She said, never man was true: He said, none was false to you.

He said, he had loved her long: She said, love should have no wrong.

Corydon would kiss her then, She said, maids must kiss no men, Till they do for good and all; Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth, Never loved a truer youth.

Thus with many a pretty oath, Yea, and nay, and faith and troth, Such as silly shepherds use When they will not love abuse; Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded: And Phillida with garlands gay, Was made the lady of the May.

Richard Breton.

SHALL I COME, SWEET LOVE?

Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee When the evening beams are set?

Shall I not excluded be, Will you find no feigned let?

Let me not, for pity, more Tell the long hours at your door.

Who can tell what thief or foe, In the covert of the night, For his prey will work my woe, Or through wicked foul despite?

So may I die unredrest Ere my long love be possest.

But to let such dangers pa.s.s, Which a lover's thoughts disdain, 'Tis enough in such a place To attend love's joys in vain: Do not mock me in thy bed, While these cold nights freeze me dead.

Thomas Campion.

CHERRY-RIPE.

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow.

Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Thomas Campion.

FAIR SAMELA.

Like to Diana in her summer weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Goes fair Samela;

Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, When wash'd by Arethusa's fount they lie, Is fair Samela;

As fair Aurora in her morning gray, Deck'd with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela;