A frail delight, like that wasp's life
Which now both frisks and flies,
And in a moment's wanton strife
It faints, it pants, it dies.
And when I charge, my lance in rest,
I triumph in delight,
And when I have the ring transpierced
I languish in despite;
Or like one in a lukewarm bath,
Light-wounded in a vein,
Spurts out the spirits of his life
And fainteth without pain.
From Robert Jones' First Book of Airs, 1601.
MY mistress sings no other song,
But still complains I did her wrong;
Believe her not, it was not so,
I did but kiss her and let her go.
And now she swears I did,—but what?
Nay, nay, I must not tell you that.
And yet I will, it is so sweet
As teehee tahha when lovers meet.
But women's words they are heedless,
To tell you more it is needless;
I ran and caught her by the arm,
And then I kissed her,—this was no harm.
But she, alas! is angry still,
Which sheweth but a woman's will:
She bites the lip and cries "Fie, fie!"
And, kissing sweetly, away she doth fly.
Yet sure her looks bewrays content,
And cunningly her brawls[13] are meant,
As lovers use to play and sport
When time and leisure is too-too short.