Transcriber’s Notes:

Footnotes to the Preface are collected at the end of that section, but other footnotes appear immediately below the relevant song lyrics. All footnotes are numbered sequentially.

A hyperlinked Table of Contents has been added to this version.

There is some Greek in this text, which may require adjustment of your browser settings to display correctly. A transliteration of each line is included. Hover your mouse over words underlined with a grey dotted line to see the transliteration.

Text underlined with a red dotted line has been amended. In particular:
In the index, “... land in Kent (Malismata)” has been corrected to “Melismata.”
In the index, “... heavenby fire” has been corrected to “heavenly fire.”
In “Thrice blessèd be the giver”, “failed” has been corrected to “failèd.”

Inconsistencies in the spelling and hyphenation of words between different songs have been retained, but minor punctuation omissions have been silently corrected.

CONTENTS

LYRICS
FROM THE SONG-BOOKS OF THE
ELIZABETHAN AGE.

Note.—Two hundred and fifty copies of this large paper edition printed, each of which is numbered.

LYRICS
FROM THE SONG-BOOKS OF THE
ELIZABETHAN AGE:

EDITED BY

A.H. BULLEN.

LONDON:
JOHN C. NIMMO,
14, King William Street, Strand, W.C.
1887.

CHISWICK PRESS:—C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT,
CHANCERY LANE.

PREFACE.

The present Anthology is intended to serve as a companion volume to the Poetical Miscellanies published in England at the close of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries. A few of the lyrics here collected are, it is true, included in “England’s Helicon,” Davison’s “Poetical Rhapsody,” and “The Phœnix’ Nest”; and some are to be found in the modern collections of Oliphant, Collier, Rimbault, Mr. W.J. Linton, Canon Hannah, and Professor Arber. But many of the poems in the present volume are, I have every reason to believe, unknown even to those who have made a special study of Elizabethan poetry. I have gone carefully through all the old song-books preserved in the library of the British Museum, and I have given extracts from two books of which there is no copy in our national library. A first attempt of this kind must necessarily be imperfect. Were I to go over the ground again I should enlarge the collection, and I should hope to gain tidings of some song-books (mentioned by bibliographers) which I have hitherto been unable to trace.

In Elizabeth’s days composers were not content to regard the words of a song as a mere peg on which to hang the music, but sought the services of true-born lyrists. It is not too much to say that, for delicate perfection of form, some of the Elizabethan songs can compare with the choicest epigrams in the Greek Anthology. At least one composer, Thomas Campion, wrote both the words and the music of his songs; and there are no sweeter lyrics in English poetry than are to be found in Campion’s song-books. But it may be assumed that, as a rule, the composers are responsible only for the music.

It was in the year of the Spanish Armada, 1588, that William Byrd published “Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs of Sadness and Piety,” the first Elizabethan song-book of importance. Few biographical particulars concerning Byrd have come down. As he was senior chorister of St. Paul’s in 1554, he is conjectured to have been born about 1538. From 1563 to 1569 he was organist of Lincoln Cathedral. He and Tallis were granted a patent, which must have proved fairly lucrative, for the printing of music and the vending of music-paper. In later life he appears to have become a convert to Romanism. His last work was published in 1611, and he died at a ripe old age on the 24th of July, 1623. The “Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs” are dedicated to Sir Christopher Hatton. In the dedicatory epistle he terms the collection “this first printed work of mine in English;” in 1575 he had published with Tallis “Cantiones Sacræ.” From the title one would gather that Byrd’s first English collection was mainly of a sacred character, but in an epistle to the reader he hastens to set us right on that point:—“Benign reader, here is offered unto thy courteous acceptance music of sundry sorts, and to content divers humours. If thou be disposed to pray, here are psalms; if to be merry, here are sonnets.” There is, indeed, fare for all comers; and a reader has only himself to blame if he goes away dissatisfied. In those days, as in these, it was not uncommon for a writer to attribute all faults, whether of omission or commission, to the luckless printer. Byrd, on the other hand, solemnly warns us that “in the expression of these songs either by voices or instruments, if there be any jar or dissonance,” we are not to blame the printer, who has been at the greatest pains to secure accuracy. Then the composer makes a modest appeal on behalf of himself, requesting those who find any fault in the composition “either with courtesy to let the same be concealed,” or “in friendly sort” point out the errors, which shall be corrected in a future impression. This is the proper manner of dealing between gentlemen. His next publication was “Songs of Sundry Natures,” 1589, which was dedicated to Sir Henry Carey, who seems to have been as staunch a patron of Byrd as his son, Sir George Carey, was of Dowland. In 1611 appeared Byrd’s last work, “Psalms, Songs, and Sonnets.” The composer must have taken to heart the precepts set down by Sir Edward Dyer in “My mind to me a kingdom is,” (printed in “Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs”) for his dedicatory epistle and his address to the reader show him to have been a man who had laid up a large store of genial wisdom, upon which he could draw freely in the closing days of an honourable life. His earlier works had been well received, and in addressing “all true lovers of music” he knew that he could rely upon their cordial sympathy. “I am much encouraged,” he writes, “to commend to you these my last labours, for mine ultimum vale;” and then follows a piece of friendly counsel: “Only this I desire, that you will be as careful to hear them well expressed, as I have been both in the composing and correcting of them. Otherwise the best song that ever was made will seem harsh and unpleasant; for that the well expressing of them either by voices or instruments is the life of our labours, which is seldom or never well performed at the first singing or playing.”

No musician of the Elizabethan age was more famous than John Dowland, whose “heavenly touch upon the lute” was commended in a well-known sonnet (long attributed to Shakespeare) by Richard Barnfield. Dowland was born at Westminster in 1562. At the age of twenty, or thereabouts, he started on his travels; and, after rambling through “the chiefest parts of France, a nation furnished with great variety of music,” he bent his course “towards the famous province of Germany,” where he found “both excellent masters and most honourable patrons of music.” In the course of his travels he visited Venice, Padua, Genoa, Ferrara, and Florence, gaining applause everywhere by his musical skill. On his return to England he took his degree at Oxford, as Bachelor of Music, in 1588. In 1597 he published “The First Book of Songs or Airs of four parts, with Tableture for the Lute.” Prefixed is a dedicatory epistle to Sir George Carey (second Lord Hunsdon), in which the composer alludes gracefully to the kindness he had received from Lady Elizabeth Carey, the patroness of Spenser. A “Second Book of Songs or Airs” was published in 1600, when the composer was at the Danish Court, serving as lutenist to King Christian the Fourth. The work was dedicated to the famous Countess of Bedford, whom Ben Jonson immortalized in a noble sonnet. From a curious address to the reader by George Eastland, the publisher, it would appear that in spite of Dowland’s high reputation the sale of his works was not very profitable. “If the consideration of mine own estate,” writes Eastland, “or the true worth of money, had prevailed with me above the desire of pleasing you and showing my love to my friends, these second labours of Master Dowland—whose very name is a large preface of commendation to the book—had for ever lain hid in darkness, or at the least frozen in a cold and foreign country.” The expenses of publication were heavy, but he consoled himself with the thought that his high-spirited enterprise would be appreciated by a select audience. In 1603 appeared “The Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs;” and, in 1612, when he was acting as lutenist to Lord Walden, Dowland issued his last work, “A Pilgrime’s Solace.” He is supposed to have died about 1615, leaving a son, Robert Dowland, who gained some fame as a composer. Modern critics have judged that Dowland’s music was somewhat overrated by his contemporaries, and that he is wanting in variety and originality. Whether these critics are right or wrong, it would be difficult to overrate the poetry. In attempting to select representative lyrics one is embarrassed by the wealth of material. The rich clusters of golden verse hang so temptingly that it is difficult to cease plucking when once we have begun.

In his charming collection of “Rare Poems” Mr. Linton quotes freely from the song-books of Byrd and Dowland, but gives only one lyric of Dr. Thomas Campion. As Mr. Linton is an excellent judge of poetry, I can only suppose that he had no wide acquaintance with Campion’s writings, when he put together his dainty Anthology. There is clear evidence[1] that Campion wrote not only the music but the words for his songs—that he was at once an eminent composer and a lyric poet of the first rank. He published a volume of Latin verse, which displays ease and fluency (though the prosody is occasionally erratic); as a masque-writer he was inferior only to Ben Jonson; he was the author of treatises on the arts of music and poetry; and he practised as a physician. It would be interesting to ascertain some facts about the life of this highly-gifted man; but hitherto little information has been collected. The Oxford historian, good old Anthony-à-Wood, went altogether wrong and confused our Thomas Campion with another person of the same name who took his degree in 1624—five years after the poet’s death. It is probable that our Thomas Campion was the second son of Thomas Campion of Witham, Essex, and that he was distantly related to Edmund Campion the famous Jesuit. His first work was his “Epigrammatum Libri duo,” published in 1595, and republished in 1619. The first edition is exceedingly rare; there is no copy in the British Museum. Francis Meres, in his very valuable (and very tedious) “Wit’s Treasury,” 1598, mentions Campion among the “English men, being Latin poets,” who had “attained good report and honorable advancement in the Latin empire.” In 1601 Campion and Philip Rosseter published jointly “A Book of Airs.” The music was partly written by Campion and partly by Rosseter; but the whole of the poetry may be safely assigned to Campion. From a dedicatory epistle, by Rosseter, to Sir Thomas Monson, we learn that Campion’s songs, “made at his vacant hours and privately imparted to his friends,” had been passed from hand to hand and had suffered from the carelessness of successive transcribers. Some impudent persons, we are told, had “unrespectively challenged” (i.e. claimed) the credit both of the music and the poetry. The address To the Reader, which follows the dedicatory epistle, is unsigned, but appears to have been written by Campion. “What epigrams are in poetry,” it begins, “the same are airs in music: then in their chief perfection when they are short and well seasoned. But to clog a light song with a long preludium is to corrupt the nature of it. Many rests in music were invented either for necessity of the fugue, or granted as an harmonical licence in songs of many parts; but in airs I find no use they have, unless it be to make a vulgar and trivial modulation seem to the ignorant strange, and to the judicial tedious.” It is among the curiosities of literature that this true poet, who had so exquisite a sense of form, and whose lyrics are frequently triumphs of metrical skill, should have published a work (entitled “Observations in the Art of English Poesy”) to prove that the use of rhyme ought to be discontinued, and that English metres should be fashioned after classical models. “Poesy,” he writes, “in all kind of speaking is the chief beginner and maintainer of eloquence, not only helping the ear with the acquaintance of sweet numbers, but also raising the mind to a more high and lofty conceit. For this end have I studied to induce a true form of versifying into our language; for the vulgar and artificial custom of rhyming hath, I know, deterr’d many excellent wits from the exercise of English poesy.” The work was published in 1602, the year after he had issued the first collection of his charming lyrics. It was in answer to Campion that Samuel Daniel wrote his “Defence of Rhyme” (1603), one of the ablest critical treatises in the English language. Daniel was puzzled, as well he might be, that an attack on rhyme should have been made by one “whose commendable rhymes, albeit now himself an enemy to rhyme, have given heretofore to the world the best notice of his worth.” It is pleasant to find Daniel testifying to the fact that Campion was “a man of fair parts and good reputation.” Ben Jonson, as we are informed by Drummond of Hawthornden, wrote “a Discourse of Poesy both against Campion and Daniel;” but the discourse was never published. In his “Observations” Campion gives us a few specimen-poems written in the unrhymed metres that he proposed to introduce. The following verses are the least objectionable that I can find:—

“Just beguiler,
Kindest love yet only chastest,
Royal in thy smooth denials,
Frowning or demurely smiling,
Still my pure delight.

Let me view thee
With thoughts and with eyes affected,
And if then the flames do murmur,
Quench them with thy virtue, charm them
With thy stormy brows.

Heaven so cheerful
Laughs not ever; hoary winter
Knows his season, even the freshest
Summer morns from angry thunder
Yet not still secure.”

There is artful ease and the touch of a poet’s hand in those verses; but the Muses shield us from such innovations! Campion’s second collection, “Two Books of Airs”, is undated; but, from an allusion to the death of Prince Henry, we may conclude that it was published about the year 1613. The first book consists of “Divine and Moral Songs” and the second of “light conceits of lovers.” In dealing with sacred themes, particularly when they venture on paraphrases of the Psalms, our poets seldom do themselves justice; but I claim for Campion that he is neither stiff nor awkward. Henry Vaughan is the one English poet whose devotional fervour found the highest lyrical expression; and Campion’s impassioned poem “Awake, awake, thou heavy sprite!” (p. 6) is not unworthy of the great Silurist. Among the sacred verses are some lines (“Jack and Joan they think no ill,” p. 61) in praise of a contented countryman and his good wife. A sweeter example of an old pastoral lyric could nowhere be found, not even in the pages of Nicholas Breton. The “Third and Fourth Books of Airs” are also undated, but they were probably published in 1613. In this collection, where all is good, my favourite is “Now winter nights enlarge” (p. 90). Others may prefer the melodious serenade, worthy even of Shelley, “Shall I come, sweet love, to thee” (p. 100). But there is one poem of Campion (printed in the collection of 1601) which, for strange richness of romantic beauty, could hardly be matched outside the sonnets of Shakespeare:—

“When thou must home to shades of underground,
And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,
The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
To hear the stories of thy finish’d love
From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move:

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!”

The mention of “White Iope” was suggested by a passage of Propertius:—

“Sunt apud infernos tot millia formosarum;
Pulchra sit, in superis, si licet, una locis.
Vobiscum[2] est Iope, vobiscum candida Tyro,” &c.

Campion was steeped in classical feeling: his rendering of Catullus’ “Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus” (p. 80) is, so far as it goes, delightful. It is time that Campion should again take his rightful place among the lyric poets of England. In his own day his fame stood high. Camden did not hesitate to couple his name with the names of Spenser and Sidney; but modern critics have persistently neglected him. The present anthology contains a large number of his best poems; and I venture to hope that my attempt to recall attention to the claims of this true poet will not be fruitless.

There is much excellent verse hidden away in the Song-books of Robert Jones, a famous performer on the lute. Between 1601 and 1611 Jones issued six musical works. Two of these—“The First Set of Madrigals,” 1607, and “The Muses’ Garden for Delight,” 1611,—I have unfortunately not been able to see, as I have not yet succeeded in discovering their present resting-place. Of “Ultimum Vale, or the Third Book of Airs” [1608], only one copy is known. It formerly belonged to Rimbault, and is now preserved in the library of the Royal College of Music. The other publications of Jones are of the highest rarity. By turns the songs are grave and gay. On one page is the warning to Love—

“Little boy, pretty knave, hence, I beseech you!
For if you hit me, knave, in faith I’ll breech you.” (p. 72.)

On another we read “Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly,” (p. 73); but the vain hopes, seeking to woo the sun’s fair light, were scorched with fire and drown’d in woe,

“And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,
For Love did know that their desires were true;
Though Fate frownèd.
And now drownèd
They in sorrow dwell,
It was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell.”

The last line is superb.

I have drawn freely from the madrigals of Weelkes, Morley, Farmer, Wilbye and others. Thomas Ford’s “Music of Sundry Kinds,” 1607, has yielded some very choice verse; and Francis Pilkington’s collections have not been consulted in vain. From John Attye’s “First Book of Airs,” 1622, I have selected one song, (p. 94), only one,—warm and tender and delicious. Some pleasant verses have been drawn from the rare song-books of William Corkine; and Thomas Vautor’s “Songs of Divers Airs and Natures,” 1619, have supplied some quaint snatches, notably the address to the owl, (p. 116) “Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight.” I have purposely refrained from giving many humorous ditties. Had I been otherwise minded there was plenty of material to my hand in the rollicking rounds and catches of Ravenscroft’s admirable collections.

As I have no technical knowledge of the subject, it would be impertinent for me to attempt to estimate the merits of the music contained in these old song-books; but I venture with all confidence to commend the poetry to the reader’s attention. There is one poem which I have deliberately kept back. It occurs in “The First Part of Airs, French, Polish, and others together, some in tableture and some in prick-song,” 1605. The composer was a certain Captain Tobias Hume, but who the author of the poem was I know not. Here is the first stanza:—

“Fain would I change that note
To which fond love hath charm’d me,
Long long to sing by rote,
Fancying that that harm’d me:
Yet when this thought doth come,
‘Love is the perfect sum
Of all delight,’
I have no other choice
Either for pen or voice
To sing or write.”

The other stanza shall occupy the place of honour in the front of my Anthology; for among all the Elizabethan song-books I have found no lines of more faultless beauty, of happier cadence or sweeter simplicity, no lines that more justly deserve to be treasured in the memory while memory lasts.

Footnotes

[1] In his address To The Reader prefixed to the “Fourth Book of Airs” he writes:—“Some words are in these books which have been clothed in music by others, and I am content they then served their turn: yet give me leave to make use of mine own.” Again, in the address To the Reader prefixed to the “Third Book of Airs:”—“In these English airs I have chiefly aimed to couple my words and notes lovingly together; which will be much for him to do that hath not power over both.”

[2] Some editions read “Vobiscum Antiope.”

IN LAVDEM AMORIS.

O LOVE, THEY WRONG THEE MVCH
THAT SAY THY SWEET IS BITTER,
WHEN THY RICH FRVIT IS SVCH
AS NOTHING CAN BE SWEETER.
FAIR HOVSE OF JOY AND BLISS,
WHERE TRVEST PLEASVRE IS,
I DO ADORE THEE;
I KNOW THEE WHAT THOV ART,
I SERVE THEE WITH MY HEART,
AND FALL BEFORE THEE.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

LYRICS FROM ELIZABETHAN SONG-BOOKS.

Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Campion.

From Farmer’s First Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

A little pretty bonny lass was walking

From John Dowland’s Second Book of Songs or Airs, 1600.

A shepherd in a shade his plaining made

“My heart where have you laid? O cruel maid,
To kill when you might save!
Why have ye cast it forth as nothing worth,
Without a tomb or grave?
O let it be entombed and lie
In your sweet mind and memory,
Lest I resound on every warbling string
‘Fie, fie on love! that is a foolish thing.’
Restore, restore my heart again
Which love by thy sweet looks hath slain,
Lest that, enforced by your disdain,
I sing ‘Fie on love! it is a foolish thing.’”

From Thomas Weelkes’ Madrigals of Six Parts, 1600.

A Sparrow-Hawk proud did hold in wicked jail

From Robert Jones’ First Book of Airs, 1601.

A woman’s looks

The rarest wit
Is made forget,
And like a child
Is oft beguiled
With love’s sweet-seeming bait;
Love with his rod
So like a God
Commands the mind;
We cannot find,
Fair shows hide foul deceit.

Time, that all things
In order brings,
Hath taught me how
To be more slow
In giving faith to speech,
Since women’s words
No truth affords,
And when they kiss
They think by this
Us men to over-reach.

From Thomas Morley’s First Book of Ballets to Five Voices, 1595.

About the maypole new, with glee and merriment,

The shepherds and the nymphs them round enclosèd had,
Wond’ring with what facility,
About they turn’d them in such strange agility;
And still when they unloosèd had,
With words full of delight they gently kissed them,
And thus sweetly to sing they never missed them.
Fa la!

From John Wilbye’s First Set of English Madrigals, 1598.

Adieu, sweet Amaryllis!

From Thomas Morley’s First Book of Madrigals, 1594.

April is in my mistress’ face,

From Robert Jones’ Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.

Arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun,

Arise, my thoughts, no more, if you return
Denied of grace which only you desire,
But let the sun your wings to ashes burn
And melt your passions in his quenchless fire;
Yet, if you move fair Maya’s heart to pity,
Let smiles and love and kisses be your ditty.

Arise, my thoughts, beyond the highest star
And gently rest you in fair Maya’s eye,
For that is fairer than the brightest are;
But, if she frown to see you climb so high,
Couch in her lap, and with a moving ditty,
Of smiles and love and kisses, beg for pity.

From Thomas Campion’s Two Books of Airs (circ. 1613).

Awake, awake! thou heavy sprite

Get up, get up, thou leaden man!
Thy track, to endless joy or pain,
Yields but the model of a span:
Yet burns out thy life’s lamp in vain!
One minute bounds thy bane or bliss;
Then watch and labour while time is.

From Henry Youll’s Canzonets to three voices, 1608.

Awake, sweet Love! ’tis time to rise:

From John Wilbye’s First Set of English Madrigals, 1598.

Ay me, can every rumour

From Thomas Bateson’s First Set of English Madrigals, 1604.

Ay me, my mistress scorns my love;

From John Dowland’s Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.

Behold a wonder here!

Such beams infusèd be
By Cynthia in his eyes,
As first have made him see
And then have made him wise.

Love now no more will weep
For them that laugh the while!
Nor wake for them that sleep,
Nor sigh for them that smile!

So powerful is the Beauty
That Love doth now behold,
As Love is turned to Duty
That’s neither blind nor bold.

Thus Beauty shows her might
To be of double kind;
In giving Love his sight
And striking Folly blind.

From the Second Book of Musica Transalpina, 1597.

Brown is my Love, but graceful:

Fair is my Love, but scornful:
Yet have I seen despisèd
Dainty white lilies, and sad flowers well prizèd.

From John Dowland’s Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.

By a fountain where I lay,

Fair with garlands all addrest,
(Was never Nymph more fairly blest!)
Blessèd in the highest degree,
(So may she ever blessèd be!)
Came to this fountain near,
With such a smiling cheer!
Such a face,
Such a grace!
Happy, happy eyes, that see
Such a heavenly sight as She!

Then I forthwith took my pipe,
Which I all fair and clean did wipe,
And upon a heavenly ground,
All in the grace of beauty found,
Play’d this roundelay:
“Welcome, fair Queen of May!
Sing, sweet air!
Welcome, Fair!
Welcome be the Shepherds’ Queen,
The glory of all our green!”

From Thomas Ravenscroft’s Brief Discourse, &c., 1614.

The Urchins’ Dance.

By the moon we sport and play,

The Elves’ Dance.

Round about in a fair ring-a,

From Melismata, 1611.

The Courtier’s Good Morrow to his Mistress.

Canst thou love and lie alone?

Morning-star doth now appear,
Wind is hushed and sky is clear;
Come, come away, come, come away!
Canst thou love and burn out day?
Rise, rise, rise!
Daylight do not burn out;
Bells do ring [and] birds do sing,
Only I that mourn out.

From Robert Dowland’s Musical Banquet, 1610. (Lines by the Earl of Essex.)

Change thy mind since she doth change,

Whilst she loved thee best a while,
See how she hath still delayed thee:
Using shows for to beguile,
Those vain hopes that have deceived thee:
Now thou seest, although too late,
Love loves truth which women hate.

Love no more since she is gone,
She is gone and loves another:
Being once deceived by one,
Leave her love but love none other.
She was false, bid her adieu,
She was best but yet untrue.

Love, farewell, more dear to me
Than my life, which thou preservest.
Life, all joys are gone from thee;
Others have what thou deservest.
Oh my death doth spring from hence,
I must die for her offence.

Die, but yet before thou die,
Make her know what she hath gotten,
She in whom my hopes did lie
Now is changed, I quite forgotten.
She is changed, but changèd base,
Baser in so vild a place.

From Thomas Weelkes’ Madrigals of Five and Six Parts, 1600.

Cold Winter’s ice is fled and gone,

From John Dowland’s First Book of Songs or Airs, 1597.

Come away! come, sweet Love!

Come away![3] come, sweet Love!
The golden morning wastes
While the sun from his sphere
His fiery arrows casts:
Making all the shadows fly,
Playing, staying in the grove
To entertain the stealth of love.
Thither, sweet Love, let us hie,
Flying, dying in desire,
Wing’d with sweet hopes and heavenly fire.

Come away! come, sweet Love!
Do not in vain adorn
Beauty’s grace, that should rise
Like to our naked morn!
Lilies on the river’s side,
And fair Cyprian flowers new-blown,
Desire no beauties but their own:
Ornament is nurse of pride.
Pleasure measure love’s delight:
Haste then, sweet love, our wishèd flight!

[3] This stanza is not in the original, but is added in England’s Helicon.

From Thomas Campion’s Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

Come, O come, my life’s delight!

Thou all sweetness dost enclose,
Like a little world of bliss;
Beauty guards thy looks, the rose
In them pure and eternal is:
Come, then, and make thy flight
As swift to me as heavenly light!

From Thomas Ford’s Music of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

Come, Phyllis, come into these bowers:

Come, Phyllis, come, bright heaven’s eye
Cannot upon thy beauty pry;
Glad Echo in distinguished voice
Naming thee will here rejoice;
Then come and hear her merry lays
Crowning thy name with lasting praise.

From John Wilbye’s Second Set of Madrigals, 1609.

Come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing,

From Two Books of Airs, by Thomas Campion (circ. 1613).

Come, you pretty false-eyed wanton,

Sooner may you count the stars
And number hail down-pouring,
Tell the osiers of the Thames,
Or Goodwin sands devouring,
Than the thick-showered kisses here
Which now thy tired lips must bear.
Such a harvest never was
So rich and full of pleasure,
But ’tis spent as soon as reaped,
So trustless is lore’s treasure.

From Thomas Campion’s Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

Could my heart more tongues employ

Happy minds that can redeem
Their engagements how they please,
That no joys or hopes esteem
Half so precious as their ease:
Wisdom should prepare men so,
As if they did all foreknow.

Yet no art or caution can
Grown affections easily change;
Use is such a lord of man
That he brooks worst what is strange:
Better never to be blest
Than to lose all at the best.

From William Byrd’s Psalms, Songs, and Sonnets, 1611.

Crownèd with flowers I saw fair Amaryllis

From Thomas Ravenscroft’s Brief Discourse, 1614.

The Fairies’ Dance.

Dare you haunt our hallow’d green?

From Thomas Campion’s Fourth Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

Dear, if I with guile would gild a true intent,

Love forbid that through dissembling I should thrive,
Or, in praising you, myself of truth deprive!
Let not your high thoughts debase
A simple truth in me;
Great is Beauty’s grace,
Truth is yet as fair as she.

Praise is but the wind of pride if it exceeds,
Wealth prized in itself no outward value needs:
Fair you are, and passing fair;
You know it, and ’tis true;
Yet let none despair
But to find as fair as you.

From John Dowland’s First Book of Songs or Airs, 1597.

Dear, if you change, I’ll never choose again;

Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn;
Heaven her bright stars through earth’s dim globe shall move;
Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born;
Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove:
Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view,
Ere I prove false to faith or strange to you.

From Thomas Morley’s Canzonets, 1593.

Do you not know how Love lost first his seeing?

From John Wilbye’s Second Set of Madrigals, 1609.

Draw on, sweet Night, best friend unto those cares

Sweet Night, draw on; my griefs, when they be told
To shades and darkness, find some ease from paining;
And while thou all in silence dost enfold,
I then shall have best time for my complaining.

From Henry Youll’s Canzonets to three Voices, 1608.

Each day of thine, sweet month of May,

From Thomas Campion’s Fourth Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

Every dame affects good fame, whate’er her doings be,

Dames of yore contended more in goodness to exceed,
Than in pride to be envied for that which least they need.
Little lawn then serve[d] the Pawn, if Pawn at all there were;
Homespun thread and household bread then held out all the year.
But th’ attires of women now wear out both house and land;
That the wives in silk may flow, at ebb the good men stand.

Once again, Astræa! then from heaven to earth descend,
And vouchsafe in their behalf these errors to amend.
Aid from heaven must make all even, things are so out of frame;
For let man strive all he can, he needs must please his dame.
Happy man, content that gives and what he gives enjoys!
Happy dame, content that lives and breaks no sleep for toys!

From Farmer’s First Set of English Madrigals, 1599.

Fair Phyllis I saw sitting all alone,

From William Byrd’s Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs, 1588.

Farewell, false Love, the oracle of lies,

A poison’d serpent cover’d all with flowers,
Mother of sighs and murderer of repose;
A sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poison’d bait.

A fortress foiled which Reason did defend,
A Siren song, a fever of the mind,
A maze wherein affection finds no end,
A raging cloud that runs before the wind;
A substance like the shadow of the sun,
A goal of grief for which the wisest run.

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,
A path that leads to peril and mishap,
A true retreat of sorrow and despair,
An idle boy that sleeps in Pleasure’s lap;
A deep distrust of that which certain seems,
A hope of that which Reason doubtful deems.

From Thomas Weelkes’ Ballets and Madrigals, 1598.

Farewell, my joy!

Farewell, adieu
Until our next consorting!
Sweet love, be true!
And thus we end our sporting.
Fa la la!

From John Dowland’s Second Book of Songs or Airs, 1600.

Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new,

Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again,
My trifles come as treasures from my mind;
It is a precious jewel to be plain;
Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearls we find:
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
Of me a grain!

Within this pack pins, points, laces, and gloves,
And divers toys fitting a country fair,
But my heart, wherein duty serves and loves,
Turtles and twins, court’s brood, a heavenly pair—
Happy the heart that thinks of no removes!
Of no removes!

From Thomas Campion’s Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

Fire that must flame is with apt fuel fed,

Fair, I confess there’s pleasure in your sight;
Sweet, you have power, I grant, of all delight;
But what is all to me if I have none?
Churl that you are t’enjoy such wealth alone!

Prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you,
Yet in your looks a heavenly form I view;
Then will I pray again, hoping to find,
As well as in your looks, heaven in your mind.

Saint of my heart, queen of my life and love,
O let my vows thy loving spirit move!
Let me no longer mourn through thy disdain,
But with one touch of grace cure all my pain!

From John Wilbye’s First Set of English Madrigals, 1598.

Flora gave me fairest flowers,

From Campion and Rosseter’s Book of Airs, 1601.

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!

All that I sang still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end;
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy:
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.

From Robert Jones’ First Book of Airs, 1601.

οὐκ ἔστι γήμας ὅστις οὐ χειμάζεται,
λέγουσι πάντες· καὶ γαμοῦσιν εἰδότες.
Anthol. Græc.

Fond wanton youths make love a God

All find it so who wedded are,
Love’s sweets, they find, enfold sour care;
His pleasures pleasing’st in the eye,
Which tasted once with loathing die:
They find of follies ’tis the chief,
Their woe to woo, to wed their grief.

If for their own content they choose
Forthwith their kindred’s love they lose;
And if their kindred they content,
For ever after they repent;
O ’tis of all our follies chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.

In bed, what strifes are bred by day,
Our puling wives do open lay;
None friends, none foes we must esteem
But whom they so vouchsafe to deem:
O ’tis of all our follies chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.

Their smiles we want if aught they want,
And either we their wills must grant
Or die they will, or are with child;
Their longings must not be beguiled:
O ’tis of all our follies chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.

Foul wives are jealous, fair wives false,
Marriage to either binds us thrall;
Wherefore being bound we must obey
And forcèd be perforce to say,—
Of all our bliss it is the chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.

From William Byrd’s Songs of Sundry Natures, 1589.

From Citheron the warlike boy is fled

Her careless thoughts are freèd of that flame
Wherewith her thralls are scorchèd to the heart:
If Love would so, would God the enchanting dart
Might once return and burn from whence it came!
Not to deface of Beauty’s work the frame,
But by rebound
It might be found
What secret smart I suffer by the same.

If Love be just, then just is my desire;
And if unjust, why is he call’d a God?
O God, O God, O Just! reserve thy rod
To chasten those that from thy laws retire!
But choose aright (good Love! I thee require)
The golden head,
Not that of lead!
Her heart is frost and must dissolve by fire.

From John Dowland’s Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1600.

To Master Hugh Holland.

From Fame’s desire, from Love’s delight retired,

Experience which repentance only brings,
Doth bid me, now, my heart from Love estrange!
Love is disdained when it doth look at Kings;
And Love low placèd base and apt to change.
There Power doth take from him his liberty,
Her[e] Want of Worth makes him in cradle die.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!

You men that give false worship unto Love,
And seek that which you never shall obtain;
The endless work of Sisyphus you prove,
Whose end is this, to know you strive in vain.
Hope and Desire, which now your idols be,
You needs must lose, and feel Despair with me.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!

You woods, in you the fairest Nymphs have walked:
Nymphs at whose sights all hearts did yield to love.
You woods, in whom dear lovers oft have talked,
How do you now a place of mourning prove?
Wanstead! my Mistress saith this is the doom.
Thou art love’s child-bed, nursery, and tomb.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!

From Thomas Campion’s Two Books of Airs (circ. 1613).

Give Beauty all her right!

Some the quick eye commends,
Some swelling[4] lips and red;
Pale looks have many friends,
Through sacred sweetness bred:
Meadows have flowers that pleasures move,
Though roses are the flowers of love.

Free beauty is not bound
To one unmovèd clime;
She visits every ground
And favours every time.
Let the old loves with mine compare,
My sovereign is as sweet and fair.

[4] Old ed. “smelling.”

From John Dowland’s First Book of Songs or Airs, 1597.

Go crystal tears! like to the morning showers,

Haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breath
Dissolve the ice of her indurate heart!
Whose frozen rigour, like forgetful Death,
Feels never any touch of my desert.
Yet sighs and tears to her I sacrifice
Both from a spotless heart and patient eyes.

From Egerton MS., 2013. The Verses were set to Music by Dr. John Wilson.

Go, turn away those cruel eyes,

But ’tis the custom of you men,—
False men thus to deceive us!
To love but till we love again,
And then again to leave us.

Go, let alone my heart and me,
Which thou hast thus affrighted!
I did not think I could by thee
Have been so ill requited.

But now I find ’tis I must prove
That men have no compassion;
When we are won, you never love
Poor women, but for fashion,

Do recompense my love with hate,
And kill my heart! I’m sure
Thou’lt one day say, when ’tis too late,
Thou never hadst a truer.

From Thomas Campion’s Second Book of Airs (circ. 1613).

Good men show! if you can tell,

Oh! if such a saint there be,
Some hope yet remains for me:
Prayer or sacrifice may gain
From her implorèd grace, relief;
To release me of my pain,
Or at the least to ease my grief.

Young am I, and far from guile,
The more is my woe the while:
Falsehood, with a smooth disguise,
My simple meaning hath abused:
Casting mists before mine eyes,
By which my senses are confused.

Fair he is, who vowed to me,
That he only mine would be;
But alas, his mind is caught
With every gaudy bait he sees:
And, too late, my flame is taught
That too much kindness makes men freeze.

From me, all my friends are gone,
While I pine for him alone;
And not one will rue my case,
But rather my distress deride:
That I think, there is no place,
Where Pity ever yet did bide.

From Thomas Weelkes’ Airs or Fantastic Spirits, 1608.

Ha ha! ha ha! this world doth pass

Ty hye! ty hye! O sweet delight!
He tickles this age that can
Call Tullia’s ape a marmosyte
And Leda’s goose a swan.
Farra diddle dino;
This is idle fino.

So so! so so! fine English days!
When false play’s no reproach:
For he that doth the coachman praise,
May safely use the coach.
Farra diddle dino;
This is idle fino.

From Robert Jones’s Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs (1608).

Happy he

Let who will
The active life commend
And all his travels bend
Earth with his fame to fill:
Such fame, so forced, at last dies with his death,
Which life maintain’d by others’ idle breath.

My delights,
To dearest home confined,
Shall there make good my mind
Not aw’d with fortune’s spites:
High trees heaven blasts, winds shake and honors[5] fell,
When lowly plants long time in safety dwell.

All I can,
My worldly strife shall be
They one day say of me
‘He died a good old man’:
On his sad soul a heavy burden lies
Who, known to all, unknown to himself dies.

[5] Qy. “hammers”?

From John Wilbye’s Second Set of Madrigals, 1609.

Happy, O! happy he, who not affecting

From Francis Pilkington’s First Set Of Madrigals, 1613.

Have I found her? O rich finding!

From John Mundy’s Songs and Psalms, 1594.

Heigh ho! chill go to plough no more!

From John Maynard’s Twelve Wonders of the World, 1611.

The Bachelor.

How many things as yet

I have no wife as yet
That I may call mine own;
I have no children yet
That by my name are known.

Yet, if I married were,
I would not wish to thrive
If that I could not tame
The veriest shrew alive.

From Thomas Ford’s Music of Sundry Kinds, 1607.

How shall I then describe my Love?

She’s chaste in looks, mild in her speech,
In actions all discreet,
Of nature loving, pleasing most,
In virtue all complete.

And for her voice a Philomel,
Her lips may all lips scorn;
No sun more clear than is her eye,
In brightest summer morn.

A mind wherein all virtues rest
And take delight to be,
And where all virtues graft themselves
In that most fruitful tree:

A tree that India doth not yield,
Nor ever yet was seen,
Where buds of virtue always spring,
And all the year grow green.

That country’s blest wherein she grows,
And happy is that rock
From whence she springs: but happiest he
That grafts in such a stock.

From Henry Lichfild’s First Set of Madrigals, 1613.

I always loved to call my lady Rose,

From Melismata, 1611.

A Wooing Song of a Yeoman of Kent’s Son.

I have house and land in Kent,

Ich am my vather’s eldest zonne,
My mother eke doth love me well,
For ich can bravely clout my shoone,
And ich full well can ring a bell.
Chorus. For he can bravely clout his shoone,
And he full well can ring a bell.

My vather he gave me a hog,
My mouther she gave me a zow;
I have a God-vather dwels thereby,
And he on me bestowed a plow.
Chorus. He has a God-vather dwells thereby,
And he on him bestowed a plough.

One time I gave thee a paper of pins,
Another time a tawdry-lace;
And if thou wilt not grant me love,
In truth ich die bevore thy face.
Chorus. And if thou wilt not grant his love,
In truth he’ll die bevore thy vace.

Ich have been twice our Whitson-lord,
Ich have had ladies many vair,
And eke thou hast my heart in hold
And in my mind zeems passing rare.
Chorus. And eke thou hast his heart in hold
And in his mind seems passing rare.

Ich will put on my best white slops
And ich will wear my yellow hose,
And on my head a good grey hat,
And in’t ich stick a lovely rose.
Chorus. And on his head a good grey hat,
And in’t he’ll stick a lovely rose.

Wherefore cease off, make no delay,
And if you’ll love me, love me now;
Or else ich zeek zome oderwhere,
For I cannot come every day to woo.
Chorus. Or else he’ll zeek zome oderwhere,
For he cannot come every day to woo.

From William Byrd’s Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs of Sadness and Piety, 1588.

I joy not in no earthly bliss,

I wish but what I have at will,
I wander not to seek for more;
I like the plain, I climb no hill;
In greatest storms I sit on shore
And laugh at them that toil in vain
To get what must be lost again.

I kiss not where I wish to kill;
I feign not love where most I hate;
I break no sleep to win my will;
I wait not at the mighty’s gate;
I scorn no poor, nor fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.

The court and cart I like nor loath;
Extremes are counted worst of all;
The golden mean between them both
Doth surest sit and fears no fall.
This is my choice: for why? I find
No wealth is like the quiet mind.

From John Wilbye’s Second Set of Madrigals, 1609.

I live, and yet methinks I do not breathe;

Risposta.
There is a jewel which no Indian mines
Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty;
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music’s strain:
Seldom it come, to few from heaven sent,
That much in little, all in nought,—Content.

From John Maynard’s Twelve Wonders of the World, 1611.

The Maid.

I marriage would forswear,

Therefore, if fortune come,
I will not mock and play
Nor drive the bargain on
Till it be driven away.

Titles and lands I like,
Yet rather fancy can
A man that wanteth gold
Than gold that wants a man.

From John Maynard’s Twelve Wonders of the World, 1611.

The Married Man.

I only am the man

And though my shoe did wring
I would not make my moan,
Nor think my neighbours’ chance
More happy than mine own.

Yet court I not my wife,
But yield observance due,
Being neither fond nor cross,
Nor jealous nor untrue.

From John Dowland’s Second Book of Songs or Airs, 1600.

I saw my Lady weep,

Sorrow was there made fair,
And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing;
Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare;
She made her sighs to sing,
And all things with so sweet a sadness move
As made my heart at once both grieve and love.

O fairer than aught else
The world can show, leave off in time to grieve.
Enough, enough; your joyful look excels;
Tears kill the heart, believe.
O strive not to be excellent in woe,
Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow.

From John Wilbye’s First Set of English Madrigals, 1598.

I sung sometime my thoughts and fancy’s pleasure,

From Orlando Gibbons’ First Set of Madrigals, 1612.