Then Pan with his rude pipe began the country wealth t’ advance,
To boast of cattle, flocks of sheep, and goats on hills that dance,
With much more of this churlish kind,
That quite transported Midas’ mind,
And held him wrapt in trance.
This wrong the God of Music scorned from such a sottish judge,
And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the piper trudge:
Then Midas’ head he so did trim
That every age yet talks of him
And Phœbus’ right revengèd grudge.
From Robert Dowland’s Musical Banquet, 1610. (The lines are assigned to Robert Deveureux, Earl of Essex.)
To plead my faith, where faith hath no reward,
I lovèd her whom all the world admired,
I was refused of her that can love none,
And my vain hopes which far too high aspired
Is dead and buried and for ever gone.
Forget my name since you have scorned my love,
And woman-like do not too late lament:
Since for your sake I do all mischief prove,
I none accuse nor nothing do repent:
I was as fond as ever she was fair,
Yet loved I not more than I now despair.
From Thomas Weelkes’ Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.
To shorten winter’s sadness
Disguisèd all are coming,
Right wantonly a-mumming.
Fa la la!
Though masks encloud their beauty,
Yet give the eye her duty.
Fa la la!