O fair, O sweet, &c.
Sweet, think not I am at ease,
For because my chief part singeth;
This song from death's sorrow springeth,
As to Swan in last disease;
For no dumbness nor death bringeth
Stay to true love's melody:
Heart and soul do sing in me.
'There!' cried lady Margaret, with a merry laugh. 'What says the English song to my English husband?'
'It says much, Margaret,' returned lord Herbert, who had been listening intently; 'it tells me to love you for ever.—What poet is he who wrote the song, mistress Dorothy? He is not of our day—that I can tell but too plainly. It is a good song, and saith much.'
'I found it near the end of the book called "The Countess of Pembroke's
Arcadia,"' replied Dorothy.
'And I knew it not! Methought I had read all that man of men ever wrote,' said lord Herbert. 'But I may have read it, and let it slip. But now that, by the help of the music and thy singing, cousin Dorothy, I am come to understand it, truly I shall forget it no more. Where got'st thou the music, pray?'
'It says in the book it was fitted to a certain Spanish tune, the name of which I knew not, and yet know not how to pronounce; but I had the look of the words in my head, and when I came upon some Spanish songs in an old chest at home, and, turning them over, saw those words, I knew I had found the tune to sir Philip's verses.'
'Tell me then, my lord, why you are pleased with the song,' said lady
Margaret, very quietly.
'Come, mistress Dorothy,' said lord Herbert, 'repeat the song to my lady, slowly, line by line, and she will want no exposition thereon.'
When Dorothy had done as he requested, lady Margaret put her arm round her husband's neck, laid her cheek to his, and said,
'I am a goose, Ned. It is a fair and sweet song. I thank you, Dorothy. You shall sing it to me another time when my lord is away, and I shall love to think my lord was ill content with me when I called it a foolish thing. But my Irish was a good song too, my lord.'