But pity on thy sable hearse,
Mine eyes the tears of sorrow shed;
What though tears cannot fate reverse,
Yet are they duties to the dead.
O, Mistress, in thy sanctuary
Why wouldst thou suffer cold disdain
To use his frozen cruelty,
And gentle pity to be slain?
Pity that to thy beauty fled,
And with thy beauty should have lived,
Ah, in thy heart lies burièd,
And nevermore may be revived;
Yet this last favour, dear, extend,
To accept these vows, these tears I shed,
Duties which I thy pilgrim send,
To beauty living, pity dead.
From Thomas Weelkes’ Airs or Fantastic Spirits, 1608.
Upon a hill the bonny boy
His pipe and he could not agree,
For Milla was his note;
The silly pipe could never get
This lovely name by rote:
With that they both fell in a sound,[22]
He fell a-sleep, his pipe to ground.
[22] Swoon.
From William Byrd’s Songs of Sundry Natures, 1589.
Upon a summer’s day Love went to swim,
From Thomas Campion’s Second Book of Airs (circ. 1613).
Vain men! whose follies make a god of love;