Fair, I confess there’s pleasure in your sight;
Sweet, you have power, I grant, of all delight;
But what is all to me if I have none?
Churl that you are t’enjoy such wealth alone!
Prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you,
Yet in your looks a heavenly form I view;
Then will I pray again, hoping to find,
As well as in your looks, heaven in your mind.
Saint of my heart, queen of my life and love,
O let my vows thy loving spirit move!
Let me no longer mourn through thy disdain,
But with one touch of grace cure all my pain!
From John Wilbye’s First Set of English Madrigals, 1598.
Flora gave me fairest flowers,
From Campion and Rosseter’s Book of Airs, 1601.
Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!
All that I sang still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end;
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy:
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
From Robert Jones’ First Book of Airs, 1601.
οὐκ ἔστι γήμας ὅστις οὐ χειμάζεται,
λέγουσι πάντες· καὶ γαμοῦσιν εἰδότες.
Anthol. Græc.