To the Courteous Reader.
Gentlemen,
If the consideration of mine own estate, or the true worth of money had prevailed with me above the desire of pleasuring you and shewing my love to my friend, these Second Labours of Master Dowland—whose very name is a large Preface of commendations to the book—had for ever lain hid in darkness, or at the least frozen in a cold and foreign country.
I assure you that both my charge and pains in publishing it, hath exceeded ordinary [ones]: yet thus much I have to assure me of requital, that neither the work is ordinary; nor are your judgements ordinary, to whom I present it! so that I have no reason but to hope for good increase in my labours, especially of your good favours towards me; which of all things I most esteem. Which if I find in this, I mean shortly, GOD willing, to set at liberty for your service, a prisoner taken at Cadiz: who, if he discovers not something, in [the] matter of music, worthy [of] your knowledge; let the reputation of my judgement in music answer [for] it!
In the meantime, I commend my absent friend to your remembrance! and myself, to your favourable conceits!
GEORGE EASTLAND.
From my house near The Green Dragon and Sword, in Fleet Street.
Lyrics, Elegies, &c. from Madrigals, Canzonets, &c.
John Dowland.
The Second Book of Songs or Airs.
To the most famous Anthony Holborne.
I saw my Lady weep!
And Sorrow proud! to be advancèd so
In those fair eyes, where all perfections keep.
Her face was full of woe!
But such a woe (believe me!) as wins more hearts
Than Mirth can do, with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair!
And Passion, wise! Tears, a delightful thing!
Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare!
She made her sighs to sing,
And all things with so sweet a sadness move;
As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
O Fairer than ought else
The world can shew! leave off, in time, to grieve!
Enough, enough! Your joyful look excels!
Tears kill the heart, believe!
O strive not to be excellent in woe,
Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow!
Lacrimæ.
Flow, my tears! fall from your springs!
Exiled for ever, let me mourn
Where night's black bird, her sad infamy sings!
There, let me live forlorn!
Never may my woes be relieved, since pity is fled;
And tears, and sighs, and groans, my weary days, of all joys, have deprivèd.
Down vain lights! Shine you no more!
No nights are dark enough for those,
That in despair, their last fortunes deplore.
Light doth but shame disclose!
From the highest spire of contentment, my fortune is thrown;
And fear, and grief, and pain, for my deserts, are my hopes; since hope is gone.
Hark, you shadows! that in darkness dwell,
Learn to contemn light!
Happy! happy they, that, in hell,
Feel not the world's despite!
Sorrow! Sorrow, stay! Lend true repentant tears
To a woful wretched wight!
Hence! hence, Despair! with thy tormenting fears.
O do not, my poor heart affright!
Pity! Pity, help now, or never! Mark me not to endless pain!
Alas, I am condemnèd ever, no hope there doth remain,
But down, down, down, down I fall;
And arise, I never shall.
"Die not before thy day! poor man condemned!
But lift thy low looks from th' humble earth!
Kiss not Despair, and see sweet Hope contemned!
The hag hath no delight, but moan for mirth!
O fie, poor fondling! fie, be willing
To preserve thyself from killing!
Hope, thy keeper, glad to free thee,
Bids thee go! and will not see thee.
Hie thee, quickly, from thy wrong!"
So She ends her willing song.
Mourn! Day is with darkness fled!
What heaven then governs earth?
O none, but hell, in heaven's stead,
Chokes with his mists, our mirth.
Mourn! Look, now, for no more day!
Nor night, but that from hell!
Then all must, as they may,
In darkness learn to dwell!
But yet this change must change our delight,
That thus the Sun should harbour with the Night.
Time's eldest son, Old Age (the Heir of Ease,
Strength's Foe, Love's Woe, and Foster to Devotion)
Bids gallant Youth in martial prowess please!
As for himself, he hath no earthly motion;
But thinks Sighs, Tears, Vows, Prayers, and Sacrifices,
As good as Shows, Masks, Jousts, or Tilt devices.
Then sit thee down! and say thy Nunc dimitis!
With De profundis, Credo, and Te DEUM!
Chant Miserere, for what now so fit is
As that, or this, Paratum est cor meum!
O that thy Saint would take in worth thy heart!
Thou canst not please her with a better part.
When others sing Venite exultemus!
Stand by, and turn to Noli emulari!
For Quare fremuerunt, use Oremus!
Vivat Eliza! for an Ave Mari!
And teach those Swains that live about thy cell;
To sing Amen, when thou dost pray so well!
Praise blindness, Eyes! for seeing is deceit.
Be dumb, vain Tongue! words are but flattering winds.
Break Heart, and bleed! for there is no receipt
To purge inconstancy from most men's minds.
And so I waked amazed, and could not move;
I know my dream was true, and yet I love!
And if thine Ears, false heralds to thy heart,
Convey into thy head, hopes to obtain;
Then tell thy hearing, thou art deaf by Art!
Now, Love is Art; that wonted to be plain.
And so I waked amazed, and could not move;
I know my dream was true, and yet I love!
Now none is bald, except they see his brains!
Affection is not known, till one be dead!
Reward for love, are labours for his pains!
Love's quiver made of gold, his shafts of lead.
And so I waked amazed, and could not move;
I know my dream was true, and yet I love!
To Master Hugh Holland.
From Fame's desire, from Love's delight retired;
In these sad groves, an hermit's life I lead:
And those false pleasures, which I once admired,
With sad remembrance of my fall, I dread.
To birds, to trees, to earth, impart I this;
For she less secret, and as senseless is!
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!
Experience which repentance only brings,
Doth bid me, now, my heart from Love estrange!
Love is disdained, when it doth look at kings;
And Love low placed, base and apt to change.
There, Power doth take from him his liberty!
Her Want of Worth makes him in cradle die!
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!
You men that give false worship unto Love,
And seek that which you never shall obtain;
The endless work of Sisyphus you procure!
Whose end is this, to know you strive in vain.
Hope and Desire, which now your idols be!
You needs must lose, and feel Despair with me!
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!
You woods! in you, the fairest Nymphs have walked!
Nymphs, at whose sights all hearts did yield to love.
You woods! in whom dear lovers oft have talked,
How do you now a place of mourning prove?
Wansted, my Mistress, saith, "This is the doom!
Thou art Love's childbed! nursery! and tomb!"
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!
Fine knacks for ladies! cheap! choice! brave! and new!
Good pennyworths! but money cannot move!
I keep a fair, but for the Fair to view!
A beggar may be liberal of love.
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,
The heart is true,
The heart is true.
Great gifts are guiles, and look for gifts again,
My trifles come, as treasures from my mind!
It is a precious jewel to be plain!
Sometimes in shell, th' orientest pearls we find.
Of others, take a sheaf! of me, a grain!
Of me, a grain!
Of me, a grain!
Within this pack, pins! paints! laces! and gloves!
And divers toys fitting a country fair!
But my heart, where duty serves and loves,
Turtles and twins! Court's brood! a heavenly pair!
Happy the heart that thinks of no removes!
Of no removes!
Of no removes!
Now cease my wand'ring eyes,
Strange beauties to admire!
In change least comfort lies.
Long joys yield long desire.
One faith, one love,
Make our frail pleasures eternal, and in sweetness prove!
New hopes, new joys
Are still, with sorrow, declining unto deep annoys.
One man hath but one soul
Which Art cannot divide;
If all one soul must love,
Two loves must be denied!
One soul, one love,
By faith and merit united, cannot remove!
Distracted spirits
Are ever changing, and hapless in their delights.
Nature, two eyes hath given,
All beauty to impart,
As well in earth as heaven:
But She hath given one heart!
That though we see,
Ten thousand beauties, yet in us One should be!
One stedfast love!
Because our hearts stand fixed, although our eyes do move.
Come, ye heavy States of Night!
Do my father's spirit right;
Soundings baleful, let me borrow,
Burthening my song with sorrow.
Come Sorrow, come! Her eyes that sings,
By thee, are turnèd into springs.
Come, You Virgins of the Night,
That, in dirges' sad delight!
Quire my anthems! I do borrow
Gold nor pearl, but sounds of sorrow!
Come Sorrow, come! Her eyes that sings,
By thee, are turnèd into springs.
White as lilies was her face!
When She smiled,
She beguiled!
Quitting faith, with foul disgrace.
Virtue, Service, thus neglected,
Heart with sorrows hath infected.
When I swore my heart her own,
She disdained!
I complained,
Yet She left me overthrown!
Careless of my bitter groaning,
Ruthless, bent to no relieving.
Vows, and oaths, and faith assured,
Constant ever,
Changing never;
Yet She could not be procurèd,
To believe my pains exceeding!
From her scant neglect proceeding.
O that Love should have the art,
By surmises,
And disguises,
To destroy a faithful heart!
Or that wanton looking women,
Should reward their friends, as foemen!
All in vain, is Ladies' love;
Quickly choosèd,
Shortly losèd.
For their pride is to remove!
Out, alas! Their looks first won us,
And their pride hath straight undone us!
To thyself, the sweetest Fair!
Thou hast wounded,
And confounded
Changeless Faith, with foul Despair!
And my service hath envièd;
And my succours hath denièd!
By thine error, thou hast lost
Heart unfeignèd,
Truth unstainèd;
And the Swain, that lovèd most:
More assured in love than many,
More despised in love than any.
For my heart, though set at nought;
Since you will it,
Spoil and kill it!
I will never change my thoughts!
But grieve that Beauty e'er was born.
[? But grieve that Beauty e'er was born.]
Woful Heart, with grief oppressèd!
Since my fortunes most distressèd,
From my joys hath me removed.
Follow those sweet eyes adorèd!
Those sweet eyes, wherein are storèd,
All my pleasures best beloved.
Fly, my Breast! Leave me forsaken!
Wherein Grief his seat hath taken;
All his arrows through me darting.
Thou mayest live by her sunshining!
I shall suffer no more pining
By thy loss, than by her parting.
A shepherd in a shade, his plaining made
Of love, and lover's wrong,
Unto the fairest Lass, that trode on grass,
And thus began his song:
"Since Love and Fortune will, I honour still
Your fair and lovely eye!
What conquest will it be, sweet Nymph! for thee!
If I, for sorrow die?
Restore! restore, my heart again!
Which love, by thy sweet looks hath slain!
Lest that, enforced by your disdain,
I sing 'Fie on love! it is a foolish thing!'
"My heart where have you laid, O cruel Maid!
To kill, when you might save!
Why have ye cast it forth, as nothing worth,
Without a tomb, or grave?
O let it be entombed, and lie
In your sweet mind and memory!
Lest I resound on every warbling string,
'Fie! fie on love! that is a foolish thing!'
Restore! restore, my heart again!
Which love, by thy sweet looks hath slain!
Lest that, enforced by your disdain,
I sing 'Fie on love! it is a foolish thing!'"
Shall I sue? shall I seek for grace?
Shall I pray? shall I prove?
Shall I strive to a heavenly joy,
With an earthly love?
Shall I think that a bleeding heart,
Or a wounded eye,
Or a sigh, can ascend the clouds,
To attain so high?
Silly wretch! Forsake these dreams
Of a vain Desire!
O bethink what high regard,
Holy hopes do require!
Favour is as fair as things are!
Treasure is not bought!
Favour is not won with words,
Nor the wish of a thought.
Pity is but a poor defence
For a dying heart:
Ladies' eyes respect no moan
In a mean desert.
She is too worthy far,
For a worth so base!
Cruel, and but just is She,
In my just disgrace.
Justice gives each man his own.
Though my love be just,
Yet will not She pity my grief!
Therefore die I must!
Silly heart! then yield to die!
Perish in despair!
Witness yet, how fain I die,
When I die for the Fair!
Toss not my soul, O Love! 'twixt hope and fear!
Show me some ground where I may firmly stand,
Or surely fall! I care not which appear!
So one will close me in a certain band.
When once of ill, the uttermost is known;
The strength of sorrow quite is overthrown!
Take me, Assurance! to thy blissful hold!
Or thou, Despair! unto thy darkest cell!
Each hath full rest! The one, in joys enroll'd:
Th' other, in that he fears no more, is well.
When once the uttermost of ill is known,
The strength of sorrow quite is overthrown!
Clear or cloudy, sweet as April show'ring,
Smooth or frowning, so is her Face to me.
Pleased or smiling, like mild May all flow'ring:
When skies, blue silk, and meadows, carpets be.
Her Speeches, notes of that night bird that singeth,
Who, thought all sweet, yet jarring notes outringeth.
Her Grace, like June, when earth and trees be trimmed
In best attire, of complete beauty's height.
Her Love again, like Summer's days be dimmed,
With little clouds of doubtful constant faith.
Her Trust, her Doubt, like rain and heat in skies;
Gently thund'ring, She light'ning to mine eyes.
Sweet Summer! Spring! that breatheth life and growing
In weeds, as into herbs and flowers;
And sees of service, divers sorts in sowing,
Some haply seeming, and some being yours:
Rain on your herbs and flowers that truly seem!
And let your weeds lack dew, and duly starve!
A Dialogue.
Humour, say! What mak'st thou here
In presence of a Queen?
Thou art a heavy leaden mood!
Chorus. But never Humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you!
Princes hold conceit most dear,
All conceit in Humour seen;
Humour is Invention's food.
Chorus. But never Humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you!
O, I am as heavy as earth,
Say, then, who is Humour now?
Why, then, 'tis I am drowned in woe?
Chorus. But never Humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you!
I am now inclined to mirth,
Humour I, as well as thou!
No, no Wit is cherished so.
Chorus. But never Humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you!
Mirth, then, is drowned in Sorrow's brim.
No, no, fool! The light things swim;
Heavy things sink to the deep!
Chorus. But never Humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you!
O, in sorrow, all things sleep!
In her presence, all things smile;
Humour, frolic then awhile!
Chorus. But never Humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you!
[Then follows a piece of instrumental music, entitled
Lowland's Adieu for Master Oliver Cromwell.]
The Sequestration of Archbishop Abbot
from all his Ecclesiastical
Offices, in 1627.
John Rushworth, Esq., of Lincoln's Inn.
[It will be necessary, ere long, to establish a Society for the Preservation of the Memory of the Stuart Kings of England, from Universal Execration; so much is it now seen, that, stripped of the mantle of their Kingship, they were unworthy of the name of English Gentlemen. Scotland could have sent us many a better bred family!
What a picture has the good Archbishop given us of the English King and Court in the first days of the reign of the so called Royal Martyr. Charles, first claiming for himself an unbounded power over his subjects, and then lavishly bestowing it on his favourite Buckingham, is the modern counterpart of Nebuchadnezzar setting up his golden image "in the plain of Dura, in the province of Babylon."
Note that this Narrative was written without the faintest conception or realisation of such a possibility as a national rising under the guidance of the Long Parliament. The two characters, of Laud at p. [548], and of Buckingham at p. [574], are Eye-Witness portraits, and should be included, unabridged, in every future History of England. Imagine an Archbishop scornfully speaking (p. [548]) of Bishop Laud as "what a sweet man he was likely to be!"
It should be also remembered that Laud records in his Diary, that on the 2nd October, 1626 (i.e., nine months before the Archbishop's present Narrative was written), Charles I. promised him the reversion of the Archbishopric, when Doctor Abbot should die.]
[Historical Collections, i. 435. Ed. 1659.]
Archbishop Abbot, having been long slighted at Court, now fell under the King's high displeasure; for refusing to license Doctor Sibthorp's sermon, entitled Apostolical Obedience, as he was commanded; and, not long after, he was sequestered from his Office, and a Commission was granted to the Bishops of London, Durham, Rochester, Oxford, and Doctor, Laud, Bishop of Bath and Wells, to exercise archiepiscopal jurisdiction.
The Commission is followeth—
Charles, by the grace of GOD, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland; Defender of the Faith, &c. To the Right Reverend Father in GOD, George [Montaigne], Bishop of London; and to the Right Reverend Father in GOD, our trusty and well beloved Councillor, Richard [Neyle], Lord Bishop of Durham; and to the Right Reverend Father in GOD, John [Buckeridge], Lord Bishop of Rochester; and to the Right Reverend Father in GOD, John [Howson], Lord Bishop of Oxford; and to the Right Reverend Father in GOD, our Right Trusty and Well Beloved Councillor, William [Laud], Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells.
Whereas George, now Archbishop of Canterbury, in the right of the Archbishopric, hath several and distinct Archiepiscopal, Episcopal, and other Spiritual and Ecclesiastical Powers and Jurisdictions, to be exercised in the Government and Discipline of the Church within the Province of Canterbury, and in the Administration of Justice in Causes Ecclesiastical within that Province, which are partly executed by himself in his own person, and partly and more generally by several persons nominated and authorised by him, being learned in the Ecclesiastical Laws of this Realm, in those several places whereunto they are deputed and appointed by the said Archbishop: which several places, as We are informed, they severally hold by several Grants for their several lives, as namely,
Sir Henry Martin Knight hath and holdeth by the grants of the said Archbishop, the Offices and Places of the Dean of the Arches, and Judge or Master of the Prerogative Court, for the natural life of the said Sir Henry Martin.
Sir Charles Cæsar Knight hath and holdeth by grants of the said Archbishop, the Places or Offices of the Judge of the Audience, and Master of the Faculties, for the term of the natural life of the said Sir Charles Cæsar.
Sir Thomas Ridley Knight hath and holdeth by the grant of the said Archbishop, the Place or Office of Vicar General to the said Archbishop.
And Nathaniel Brent, Doctor of the Laws, hath and holdeth by grant of the said Archbishop, the Office or Place of Commissary to the said Archbishop, as of his proper and peculiar diocese of Canterbury.
And likewise the several Registrars of the Arches, Prerogative, Audience, Faculties, and of the Vicar General and Commissary of Canterbury, hold their places by grants by the said Archbishop respectively.
Whereas the said Archbishop, in some or all of these several Places and Jurisdictions, doth and may sometimes assume unto his personal and proper Judicature, Order, or Direction, some particular Causes, Actions, or Cases, at his pleasure. And forasmuch as the said Archbishop cannot, at this present, in his own person, attend these services which are otherwise proper for his Cognisance and Jurisdiction; and which as Archbishop of Canterbury, he might and ought in his own person to have performed and executed in Causes and Matters Ecclesiastical, in the proper function of Archbishop of the Province.
We, therefore, of Our regal power, and of Our princely care and providence, that nothing shall be defective in the Order Discipline, Government, or Right of the Church, have thought fit by the service of some other learned and reverend Bishops, to be named by Us, to supply those which the said Archbishop ought or might, in the cases aforesaid, to have done; but, for this present, cannot perform the same.
Know ye, therefore, That We, reposing special trust and confidence in your approved wisdoms, learning, and integrity, have nominated, authorised, and appointed, and do, by these presents, nominate, authorise, and appoint You, the said George, Lord Bishop of London; Richard, Lord Bishop of Durham; John, Lord Bishop of Rochester; John, Lord Bishop of Oxford; and William, Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells, or any four, three, or two of you, to do, execute, and perform all and every those acts, matters, and things any way touching or concerning the Power, Jurisdiction, or Authority of the Archbishop of Canterbury in Causes or Matters Ecclesiastical, as amply, fully, and effectually, to all intents and purposes, as the said Archbishop himself might have done.
And We do hereby Command you, and every of you, to attend, perform, and execute this Our Royal Pleasure in and touching the premises, until We shall declare Our Will and Pleasure to the contrary.
And We do further hereby Will and Command the said Archbishop of Canterbury, quietly and without interruption, to permit and suffer you the said George, Bishop of London; Richard, Bishop of Durham; John, Bishop of Rochester; John, Bishop of Oxford; and William, Bishop of Bath and Wells; any four, three, or two of you, to execute and perform this Our Commission, according to Our Royal Pleasure thereby signified.
And We do further Will and Command all and every other person and persons, whom it may any way concern in their several Places or Offices, to be attendant, observant, and obedient to you and every of you, in the execution and performance of this Our Royal Will and Command; as they and every of them will answer the contrary at their utmost perils.
Nevertheless, We do hereby declare Our Royal Pleasure to be That they the said Sir Henry Martin, Sir Charles Cæsar, Sir Thomas Ridley, and Nathaniel Brent, in their several Offices and Places; and all other Registrars, Officers, and Ministers in the several Courts, Offices, and Jurisdictions appertaining to the said Archbishop, shall, quietly and without interruption, hold, use, occupy, and enjoy their several Offices and Places, which they now hold by the grant of the said Archbishop, or of any other former Archbishop of Canterbury, in such manner and form, and with those benefits, privileges, powers, and authorities which they now have, hold, and enjoy therein or there-out, severally and respectively: they, and every of them, in their several Places, being attendant and obedient unto you, the said George, Bishop of London; Richard, Bishop of Durham; John, Bishop of Rochester; John, Bishop of Oxford; and William, Bishop of Bath and Wells; or to any four, three, or two of you, in all things according to the tenour of this Our Commission; as they should or ought to have been to the said Archbishop himself, if this Commission had not been had or made.
In witness whereof, We have caused these our Letters to be made Patents. Witness Our Self, at Westminster, the ninth day of October [1627] in the third year of our reign.
Per ipsum Regem.
Edmonds.