Can I abide this prancing?
I weep, and she’s a-dancing!
O cruel fancy, so to betray me!
Thou goest about to slay me.
From Thomas Campion’s Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).
Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee
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 pass,
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.
From Robert Jones’ Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs (1608).
Shall I look to ease my grief?
Love and I of late did part,
But the boy, my peace envying,
Like a Parthian threw his dart
Backward, and did wound me flying:
What remains but only dying?
She whom then I lookèd on,
My remembrance beautifying,
Stays with me though I am gone,
Gone and at her mercy lying:
What remains but only dying?
Shall I try her thoughts and write?
No I have no means of trying:
If I should, yet at first sight
She would answer with denying:
What remains but only dying?