When like harms have them requited
Who in others’ harms delighted,
Pleasingly the wrong’d are righted.
Such revenge my wrongs attending,
Hope still lives on time depending,
By thy plagues thy torrents ending.
From Thomas Morley’s First Book of Ballets to Five Voices, 1595.
Shoot, false Love! I care not;
Long thy bow did fear[13] me,
While thy pomp did blear me;
Fa la la!
But now I do perceive
Thy art is to deceive;
And every simple lover
All thy falsehood can discover.
Then weep, Love! and be sorry,
For thou hast lost thy glory.
Fa la la la!
[13] Frighten.
From Thomas Campion’s Third Book of Airs, (circ. 1613).
Silly boy! ’tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly;
This is thy first maiden-flame that triumphs yet unstainèd,
All is artless now you speak, not one word is feignèd;
All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessèd,
But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath his Cressid.
Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected,
And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected;
Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holy
And with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly.