From John Dowland’s Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.
What poor astronomers are they,
And Love itself is but a jest
Devised by idle heads,
To catch young Fancies in the nest,
And lay them in fool’s beds;
That being hatched in beauty’s eyes
They may be fledged ere they be wise.
But yet it is a sport to see,
How Wit will run on wheels!
While Wit cannot persuaded be,
With that which Reason feels,
That women’s eyes and stars are odd
And Love is but a feignèd god!
But such as will run mad with Will,
I cannot clear their sight
But leave them to their study still,
To look where is no light!
Till time too late, we make them try,
They study false Astronomy!
From Thomas Ford’s Music of Sundry Kinds, 1607.
What then is love, sings Corydon,
’Tis like a morning dewy rose
Spread fairly to the sun’s arise,
But when his beams he doth disclose
That which then flourish’d quickly dies;
It is a seld-fed dying hope,
A promised bliss, a salveless sore,
An aimless mark, and erring scope.
My daily note shall be therefore,—
Heigh ho, chil love no more.
’Tis like a lamp shining to all,
Whilst in itself it doth decay;
It seems to free whom it doth thrall,
And lead our pathless thoughts astray.
It is the spring of wintered hearts
Parched by the summer’s heat before
Faint hope to kindly warmth converts.
My daily note shall be therefore—
Heigh ho, chil love no more.