Truth a rare flower now is grown,
Few men wear it in their hearts;
Lovers are more easily known
By their follies than deserts.
Safer may we credit give
To a faithless wandering Jew,
Than a young man’s vows believe
When he swears his love is true.
Love they make a poor blind child,
But let none trust such as he;
Rather than to be beguiled,
Ever let me simple be.
The Bellman’s Song.
Maids to bed and cover coal;
From Martin Peerson’s Mottects or Grave Chamber-Music, 1630.
More than most fair, full of all heavenly fire,
Thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits,
True character of honour in perfection,
Thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits,
And glorious prison of men’s pure affection:
If in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd
Honour the shrine where you alone are placèd.
From Thomas Vautor’s Songs of divers Airs and Natures, 1619.