Thus I resolve and Time hath taught me so:
Palm-tree the more you press, the more it grows;
Leave it alone, it will not much exceed:
Free beauty, if you strive to yoke, you lose,
And for affection strange distaste you breed.
What nature hath not taught no art can frame;
Wild-born be wild still, though by force you tame.
From John Wilbye’s Madrigals, 1598.
Thus saith my Chloris bright
[21] Old form of “whither.”
From Thomas Morley’s First Book of Ballets to Five Voices, 1595.
Thus saith my Galatea:
The young nymphs all are wedded:
Ah, then why do I tarry?
Oh, let me die or marry.
From Thomas Campion’s Fourth Book of Airs (circ. 1613).
To his sweet lute Apollo sang the motions of the spheres,