m w (lass TR 1137 Book Copight X p _ ^r*\ COPYRIC.HT DEPOSIT. ^ong$ from tije flDlo ©ramattgts 993C ( C' Songs fr6m the OLD DRAMATISTS COLLECTED AND EDITED KV ABBY SAGE RICHARDSON NEW YORK PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON Cambridge: €fjc 0itoer£it»c pvc$$ 1873 fK^ 1 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Hurd and Houghton, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. PREFACE A NUMBER of years ago I made for my own delec- tation a collection of lyrics from the works of some of the early play-writers, among which were the graceful little songs scattered through the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, the songs from Shakespeare, and some of those especially beautiful from the works of Robert Greene and Thomas Lodge. This collection, so small that it was contained in a pocket extract book, was so charming that it suggested to me the making of one which should be larger and more complete. I have named the volume, " Songs from the Old Dramatists," because in most cases I have taken them intact from the body of some old English drama, or else I have found them among the fugitive poems of some of the dramatic poets, who were in the habit of interspersing their plays with songs. The greater part of these in this volume have, at some time, been set to music ; and many of them have in their day been fashionable madrigals. Now they are quaint memorials of an age long since gone by. I think we shall like these all the more, because our great poets of 'this present day write no songs. Since the time of Charles II., there have been hardly any VI PREFACE. English poets who were singers. A few melodies from Tom Moore and Barry Cornwall, two or three from Shelley and Tennyson, are about all we could add to those of Shakespeare's day. We are too serious nowa- days to sing like the birds, as the early singers sang in the morning of poesy. I know the verses in this volume so much by heart, and I am so fond of them, that I feel almost as if I had a part in the making of them. If there is any one over whom they exercise a like charm, I commend this book to his gentle keeping, and warrant it a rich treasure- house of pure English song. A. S. R. CONTENTS. PAGE Pastoral Songs and Songs of Nature i Love Songs, including Serenades and EpithalamiUms . . 29 Songs of Thought and Feeling 95 Songs of Sorrow . . 125 Comic Songs and Songs of Clowns 137 Bacchanalian Songs 143 Songs of Fairies and Spirits . . . . . . . 155 Notes 1 73 Index of Authors . 181 Index of First Lines 188 The Songs were collected and the notes prepared by A. S. Richard- son; the drawings were made by J. La Farge j the ornamental designs and vignette by S. L. Smith, PASTORAL SONGS SONGS OF NATURE. w BIRD SONG. FROM "ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE." HAT bird so sings, yet does so wail ? O, 'tis the ravished nightingale ; "Jug, jug — jug, jug — tereu," she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song ! who is't now we hear ? None but the lark so shrill and clear ; Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings. Hark, hark ! with what a pretty throat, Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note ! Hark ! how the jolly cuckoos sing " Cuckoo " — to welcome in the spring. John Lyly: THE PRAISE OF PHILIP SPARROW. THE PRAISE OF PHILIP SPARROW. Of all the birds that I do know, Philip, my sparrow, hath no peer, For sit she high, or lie she low, Be she far off, or be she near, There is no bird so fair and fine, Nor yet so fresh as this of mine. Come in a morning merrily, When Philip has been lately fed ; Or in an evening soberly, When Philip list to go to bed ; It is a heaven to hear my Phip, How she can chirp with cherry lip. Wherefore I sing and ever shall, To praise as I have often proved, There is no bird amongst them all, So worthy for to be beloved. Let others praise what birds they will, Sweet Philip shall be my bird still. George Gascoigne. SPRING AND SUMMER. 3 SPRING AND SUMMER. FROM "WILL SOMER'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT." I. SPRING. Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king : Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And, hear we aye, birds tune their pretty lay, Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit ; In every street, these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. Spring, the sweet spring. ii. SUMMER. Fair summer droops, droop men and beast therefore So fair a summer look for never more ; 4 THE SEASONS. All good things vanish less than in a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year, The earth is hell when thou.leav'st to appear. What, shall these flowers that decked thy garland erst, Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed ? O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source, Streams, turn to tears your tributary course, Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year, The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear. Thomas Nash. THE SEASONS. FROM " LOVE'S LABOR LOST." I. SPRING. When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver white, And cuckoo- buds of yellow hue, Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree Mocks married men : for thus sings he, Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, Cuckoo, — O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear ! THE SEASONS. When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughman's clocks ; When turtles tread, and rooks and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree Mocks married men : for thus sings he, Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, Unpleasing to the married ear ! n. WINTER. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail ; When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who ; Tu-whit, tu-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw ; PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who ; To-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. William Shakespeare. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, Forth I walked by the wood-side, When as May was in his pride ; There I spied all alone, Phillida and Corydon. Much ado there was, God wot ; He would love, and she would not. She said, " Never man was true ; " He said, " None was false to you : " He said he had loved her long ; She said, Love should have no wrong. Coridon would kiss her then, She said, Maids must kiss no men, Till they did for good and all. Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth Never loved a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath, HYMNS TO PAN. Yea and nay, and faith and troth, Such as silly shepherds use, When they still will love abuse, Love, which has been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded ; And Phillida, with garlands gay, Was made the lady of the May. Nicholas Breton. HYMNS TO PAN. FROM "PAN'S ANNIVERSARY, A MASQUE." HYMN I. [Sung by Nymphs strezving flowers. ) Thus, thus begin the yearly rites, Are due to Pan on these bright nights ; His morn now riseth, and invites To sports, to dances, and delights ; All envious and profane away, This is the shepherd's holiday. Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground With every flower, yet not confound The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse, Bright day's eyes and the lips of cows, The garden star, the queen of May, The rose, to crown the holiday. 8 HYMNS TO PAN Drop, drop your violets, change your hues, Now red, now pale, as lovers use ; And in your death go out as well, As when you lived unto the smell ; That from your odor all may say, This is the shepherd's holiday. HYMN II. Of Pan we sing, the best of singers, Pan, That taught us swains how first to tune our lay, And on the pipe more airs than Phcebus can. Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his praise. Of Pan we sing, the best of leaders, Pan, That leads the Naiads and the Dryads forth, And to their dances more than Hermes can. Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his worth. Of Pan we sing, the best of hunters, Pan, That drives the hart to seek unused ways, And in the chase more than Sylvan us can. Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his praise. Of Pan we sing, the best of shepherds, Pan, That keeps our flocks and herds, and both leads forth To better pastures than great Pales can. Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his worth. HYMNS TO PAN. And while his power and praises thus we sing, The valleys let rebound, and all the rivers ring. HYMN III. If yet, if yet Pan's orgies you will further fit, See where the silver-footed fays do sit, The nymphs of wood and water, Each tree's and fountain's daughter. Go take them forth, it will be good, To see them wave it like a wood, And others mind it like a flood, In springs, And rings, Till the applause it brings, Wakes Echo from her seat, The closes to repeat. Echo. The closes to repeat. Echo, the truest oracle on ground, Though nothing but a sound, Echo. Though nothing but a sound. Beloved of Pan, the valley's queen, Echo. The valley's queen, And often heard, though never seen, Echo. Though never seen. Ben Jonson. SHEPHERD'S SONG. SHEPHERD'S SONG. We that have known no greater state Than this we live in, praise our fate, For courtly silks in cares are spent, When country's russet breeds content. The power of sceptres we admire, But sheep-crooks for our use desire ; Simple and low is our condition, For here with us is no ambition. We with the sun our flocks unfold, Whose rising makes their fleeces gold ; Our music from the birds we borrow, They bidding us, we them, good-morrow. Our habits are but coarse and plain, Yet 'they defend from wind and rain, As warm too, in an equal eye, As those bestained in scarlet dye. The shepherd with his homespun lass, As many merry hours doth pass, As courtiers with their costly girls, Though richly decked in gold and pearls. Thomas Heywood. ODE TO THE COUNTRY. II ODE TO THE COUNTRY. Come, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down, And leave the chargeable noise of this great town. I will the country see, Where old Simplicity, Though hid in gray, Doth look more gay Than Foppery, in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war ! 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world goes mad. More of my days, I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise ; Or to make sport For some slight pigmy of the inns of court. Then, worthy Stafford, say, How shall we spend the day, With what delights Shorten the nights, When from this tumult we are got secure ? Where Mirth with all her freedom goes, Yet shall no finger lose, Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure. 12 ODE TO THE COUNTRY. There from the tree We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry ; And every day Go see the wholesome country girls make hay ; Whose brown hath lovelier grace, Than any painted face, That I do know Hyde Park can show. Where I had rather gain a kiss, than meet (Though some of them in greater state Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street. But think upon Some other pleasures, these to me are none ; Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate ? I never mean to wed, That torture to my bed ; My Muse is she My love shall be ; Let clowns get wealth and heirs ! when I am gone, And that great bugbear, grisly Death, Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son. Of this no more, We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store, ODE TO THE COUNTRY. 1 3 No fruit shall 'scape Our palate, from the damson to the grape ; Then full, we'll seek a shade, And hear what music's made ; How Philomel Her tale doth tell, And how the other birds do fill the choir ; The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, Warbling melodious notes. We will all sports enjoy, which others but desire. Ours is the sky Where at what fowl we please, our hawk shall fly ; Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox, or timorous hare, But let our hounds run loose, In any ground they choose : The buck shall fall, The stag and all ; Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, For to my Muse, if not to me, I'm sure all game is free ; Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. And when we mean To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then And drink by stealth A cup or two to noble Barkley's health, 14 SHEPHERD'S SONGS TO PAN. I'll take my pipe and try The Phrygian melody, Which he that hears Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain ; Then I another pipe will take And Doric music make, To civilize with graver notes our wits again. Thomas Randolph. SHEPHERD'S SONGS TO PAN. FROM "THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS." I. Sing his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm, Pan, the father of our sheep ; And, arm in arm, Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighboring ground Fills the music with her sound. Pan, O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing ! Thou that keep'st us chaste and free As the young spring ; Ever be thy praises spoke, SHEPHERD'S SONGS TO PAN 1 5 From that place the Morn is broke, To that place Day doth unyoke. 11. All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers, That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes, Move your feet To our sound, Whilst we greet All the ground With his honor and his name, That defends our flocks from blame. He is great, and he is just, He is ever good, and must Thus be honored. Daffodillies, Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, Let us fling, Whilst we sing, Ever holy, Ever holy, Ever honored, ever young ! Thus great Pan is ever sung. Beaumont and Fletcher. 1 6 HARVEST HOME. HARVEST HOME. FROM "THE SUN'S DARLING." Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers, Wait on your summer queen ; Dress with musk-roses her eglantine bowers, Daffodils strew the green ; Sing, dance, and play, 'Tis holyday ; The sun doth bravely shine On our ears of corn ; Rich as a pearl, Comes every girl, This is mine, this is mine, this is mine ; Let us die ere away they be bourne. Bow to the sun, to our queen, and that fair one Come to behold our sports ; Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one, As those in prince's courts. These and we, With country glee, Will teach the woods to resound, And the hills with echoes hollow ; Skipping lambs, Their bleating dams, 'Mongst kids shall trip it round : For joys, thus our lasses we follow. LESBIA AND HER SPARROW. Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly, Hounds, make a lusty cry ; Spring up, you falconers, the partridges freely, Then let you brave hawks fly. Horses amain Over ridge, over plain, The dogs have the stag in chase ; 'Tis a sport to content a king. So ho ! ho ! through the skies How the proud bird flies, And swooping, kills with a grace 1 Now the deer falls ; hark ! how they ring. John Ford. LESBIA AND HER SPARROW. Tell me not of joy ! there 's none, Now my little sparrow's gone; He, just as you, Would toy and woo, He would chirp and flatter me, He would hang the wing awhile, Till at length he saw me smile — Lord ! how sullen he would be. He would catch a crumb, and then Sporting, let it go again ; 1 8 LESBIA AND HER SPARROW. He from my lip Would moisture sip ; He would from my trencher feed ; Then would hop, and then would run, And cry Philip when he'd done ; O ! whose heart can choose but bleed. O ! how eager would he fight, And ne'er hurt though he did bite, No morn did pass But on my glass He would sit, and mark, and do What I did, now ruffle all His feathers o'er, now let them fall, And then straightway sleek them too. Whence will Cupid get his darts Feathered now, to pierce our hearts ? A wound, he may, Not love, convey, Now this faithful bird is gone. O ! let mournful turtles join With loving redbreasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone. William Cartwright. SPRING. 19 SPRING. FROM "THE TRUE TROJANS. At the spring, Birds do sing, Now with high, Then low cry, Flat, acute, And salute The sun, born Every morn. Chorus. He 's no bard that cannot sing The praises of the flowery spring. Flora queen, All in green, Doth delight To paint white, Chorus. He 's no bard, etc. Woods renew Hunter's hue, Shepherds gray, Crowned with bay, Chorus. He's no bard, etc. And to spread, Cruel red, With a blue, Color true. With his pipe Care doth wipe, Till he dream By the stream. Faithful loves, Turtle doves, Sit and bill On a hill. Chorus. He 's no bard, etc. Country swains, On the plains, Run and leap, Turn and skip. 20 LABORER'S SONG. Pan doth play With caps red, Care away : On their head, Fairies small, Dance around Two foot tall, On the ground. Chorus. He 's no bard, etc. Phillis bright, Rocks doth move All in white, With her love, With neck fair, And make mild Yellow hair, Tigers wild. Chorus. He 's no bard that cannot sing The praises of the flowery spring. Jasper Fisher. LABORER'S SONG. FROM " LONDON'S TRIUMPH, A MASQUE." Who can boast a happiness More securely safe than we ? Since our harmless thoughts we dress In a pure simplicity ; And chaste nature doth dispense Here, her beauty's innocence. Envy is a stranger here, Blest content our bowls doth crown ; Let such slave themselves to fear, On whose guilt the judge doth frown, THE NIGHTINGALE. 21 We from evil actions are Free as uncorrupted air. With the turtles whisper love, With the birds do practice mirth, With our harmless sheep we move, And receive our food from earth, Nor do we disdain to be Clothed with the lamb's livery. John Tatham. THE NIGHTINGALE. O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love ; O, if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay. Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 22 ARCADES, Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. John Milton. ARCADES. SONGS OF SHEPHERDS AND NYMPHS. FROM ARCADES ; A MASQUE, REPRESENTED BEFORE THE COUNTESS OF DERBY. SONG I. Look, Nymphs and Shepherds, look, What sudden blaze of majesty- Is that which we from hence descry ? Too divine to be mistook ; This, this is she To whom our vows and wishes tend ; Here, our solemn search hath end. Fame, that her high worth to raise, Seemed erst so lavish and profuse, We may justly now accuse Of detraction from her praise : Less than half we find expressed, Envy bid conceal the rest. Mark what radiant state she spreads In circle round her shining throne, ARCADES. 23 Shooting her beams like silver threads ; This, this is she alone, Sitting like a goddess bright In the centre of the light. {The Genius of the Wood appears.) Genius. Stay, gentle swains, for though in this dis- guise I see bright honor sparkle through your eyes ; Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung Of that renowned flood, so often sung, Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluice Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse : And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver-buskined Nymphs, as great and good, I know this quest of yours, and free intent Was in all honor and devotion meant To the great mistress of yon princely shrine, Whom with low reverence I adore as mine, And with all helpful service will comply To further this night's glad solemnity ; And lead ye where ye may more near behold ; What shallow-searching fame hath left untold Which I full oft amidst these shades alone Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon : For know, by lot from Jove I am the power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove 24 ARCADES. With ringlets quaint, and wanton winding wove ; And all my plants I save from nightly ill Of noisome winds and blasting vapors chill : And from the boughs brush off the evil dew, And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue, Or what the cross, dire-looking planet smites, Or hurtful worm with cankered venom bites. When evening gray doth rise, I fetch my round Over the mount and all this hallowed ground, And early, ere the odorous breath of morn Awakes the slumbering leaves, or tasseled horn Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about, Number my ranks, and visit every sprout With puissant words, and murmurs made to bless ; But else, in deep of night when drowsiness Hath locked up mortal sense, then listen I To the celestial Sirens' harmony, That sit upon the vine infolded spheres, And sing to those that hold the vital shears, And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound. Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie, To lull the daughters of Necessity, And keep unsteady Nature to her law, And the low world in measured motion draw After the heavenly tune, which none can hear Of human mould, with gross unpurged ear ; And yet such music worthiest were to blaze ARCADES. 25 The peerless height of her immortal praise, Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit, If my inferior hand, or voice could hit Inimitable sounds ; yet as we go, Whate'er the skill of lesser gods can show, I will assay, her worth to celebrate, And so attend ye toward her glittering state ; Where ye may all that are of noble stem Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture's hem. SONG 11. O'er the smooth enameled green, Where no print of step hath been, Follow me as I sing, And touch the warbled string. Under the shady roof Of branching elm, star-proof. Follow me, I will bring you where she sits, Clad in splendor as befits Her deity. Such a rural queen All Arcadia hath not seen. SONG III. Nymphs and Shepherds, dance no more By sandy Ladon's lilied banks ; ' On old Lycaeus or Cyllene hoar Trip no more in twilight ranks ; 26 ARCADES. Though Erymanth your loss deplore, A better soil shall give ye thanks. From the stony Maenalus Bring your flocks, and live with us, Here ye shall have greater grace To serve the Lady of this place. Though Syrinx your Pan's mistress were, Yet Syrinx well might wait on her. Such a rural queen All Arcadia hath not seen. John Milton. SONGS. FROM "THE MERRY BEGGARS.' From hunger and cold who lives more free, Or who more richly clad than we ? Our bellies are full, our flesh is warm, And against pride, our rags are a charm ; Enough is our feast, and for to-morrow, Let rich men care, we feel no sorrow ; No sorrow, no sorrow, no sorrow, no sorrow, Let rich men care, we feel no sorrow. Each city, each town, and every village, Affords us either an alms or pillage ; SONGS. 27 And if the weather be cold and raw, Then in a barn we tumble in straw, If warm and fair, by yeacock and naycock, The fields will afford us a hedge or a haycock, A haycock, haycock, a haycock, a haycock, The fields will afford us a hedge or a haycock, n. Come, come away, the spring, By every bird that can but sing, Or chirp a note, doth now write Us forth, to taste of his delight, In field, in grove, on hill, in dale, But above all, the nightingale, Who in her sweetness strives t'outdo The loudness of the hoarse cuckoo. Cuckoo, cries he ; jug, jug, jug, sings she, From bush to bush, from tree to tree : Why in one place then tarry we ? Come away, why do we stay ? We have no debt or rent to pay No bargains nor accounts to make Nor land, nor lease, to let or take, Or if we had should that remore us, When all the world 's our own before us ? 28 SONGS. And where we pass, and make resort, It is our kingdom, and our court. Cuckoo, cries he ; jug, jug, jug, sings she, From bush to bush, from tree to tree ; Why in one place then tarry we ? Richard Brome. LOVE-SONGS, INCLUDING SERENADES AND EPITHALAMIUMS. TO SYLVIA. FROM " TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA." \/\/ H0 is s y lvia ? what is she > * * That all our swains commend her ? Holy, fair, and wise is she ; The heavens such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair, — For beauty lives with kindness ? — Love doth to her eyes repair To help him of his blindness ; And, being helped, inhabits there. 30 SERENADE. Then to Sylvia let us sing, That Sylvia is excelling ; She excels each mortal thing, Upon the dull earth dwelling ; To her let us garlands bring. Shakespeare. TO IMOGEN. FROM " CYMBELINE." Hark ! hark ! the lark at heavens' gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; And winking Mary-buds' begin To ope their pretty eyes : With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise ; Arise, arise ! Shakespeare. SERENADE. FROM "THE SPANISH CURATE." Dearest, do not you delay me, Since thou know'st I must be gone ; Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me, But 'tis wind that must be blown From that breath, whose native smell Indian odors doth excel. SERENADE. 3 1 O, then speak, thou fairest fair, Kill not him that vows to serve thee ; But perfume this neighboring air, Else dull silence sure will starve me ; 'Tis a word that 's quickly spoken Which, being restrained, a heart is broken. Beaumont and Fletcher. SERENADE. TO THE QUEEN IN PRISON. FROM "THE FALSE ONE." Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air ; Even in shadows you are fair. Shut up beauty is like fire That breaks out clearer still, and higher. Though your body be confined, And soft love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found. Look out nobly then, and dare Even the fetters that you wear. Beaumont and Fletcher. 32 WAKE, GENTLY WAKE. TO MY MISTRESS' EYES. FROM " WOMEN PLEASED." O, fair sweet face, O, eyes celestial bright, Twin stars in heaven, that now adorn the night ! O, fruitful lips, where cherries ever grow, And damask cheeks, where all sweet beauties blow ! O thou from head to foot divinely fair ! Cupid's most cunning net 's made of that hair, And, as he weaves himself for curious eyes, " O me, O me, I'm caught myself ! " he cries : Sweet rest about thee, sweet and golden sleep, Soft peaceful thoughts, your hourly watches keep, Whilst I in wonder sing this sacrifice To beauty sacred, and those angel eyes. Beaumont and Fletcher. WAKE, GENTLY WAKE. FROM " WIT AT SEVERAL WEAPONS." Fain would I wake you sweet, but fear I should invite you to worse cheer ; In your dreams you cannot fare Meaner than music, or compare ; None of your slumbers are compiled Under the pleasures makes a child ; Your day-delights, so well compact, That what you think turns all to act. SERENADE. 33 I'd wish my life no better play, Your dream by night, your thought by day. Wake, gently wake, Part softly from your dreams, The morning flies, To your fair eyes, To take her special beams. Beaumont and Fletcher. SERENADE. FROM "AMENDS FOR LADIES." Rise, lady mistress, rise ! The night has tedious been, No sleep has fallen upon my eyes, Nor slumber made me sin : Is she not a saint then, say, Thought of whom keeps sin away ? Rise, madam, rise, and give me light, Whom darkness still will cover, And ignorance, darker than night, Till thou smile on thy lover : All want day till thy beauty rise For the gray morn breaks from thine eyes. Nathaniel Field. 3 34 MORNING. SONG. Unclose those eyelids, and outshine The brightness of the breaking day ! The light they cover is divine, Why should it fade so soon away? Stars vanish so, and day appears, The sun 's so drowned in the morning's tears. O, let not sadness cloud that beauty, Which if you lose you'll ne'er recover : It is not love's, but sorrow's duty, To die so soon for a dead lover. Banish! O banish grief! and then Our joys will bring our hopes again. Henry Glapthorne. MORNING. The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings, He takes this window for the east, And to implore your light he sings. Awake ! awake ! the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; CUPID'S CURSE. 3 5 But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake ! awake ! break through your veils of lawn ! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn. Sir William Davenant. CUPID'S CURSE. FROM "THE ARRAIGNMENT OF PARIS." {CEnone and Paris sing.) CENONE. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be ; The fairest shepherd on our green, A love for any lady. PARIS. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be ; Thy love is fair for thee alone,. And for no other lady. OZNONE. My love is fair, my love is gay, And fresh as been the flowers in May, And of my love the roundelay, The merry, merry, merry roundelay Concludes with Cupid's curse ; 36 CUPID'S CURSE. They that do change old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be ; The fairest shepherd on our green, A love for any lady. PARIS. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be ; Thy love is fair for thee alone, And for no other lady. CENONE. My love can pipe, my love can sing, My love can many a pretty thing, And of his lovely praises ring My merry, merry, merry roundelays, Amen to Cupid's curse ; They that do change old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse. George Peele. CUPID'S ARRAIGNMENT. 37 CUPID AND CAMPASPE. FROM " ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE." {Ape lies sings at his easel.) Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid. He staked his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; Loses them too, then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how) ; With these, the crystal of his brow, And then, the dimple in his chin ; All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love ! has she done this to thee ? What shall, alas ! become of me ? John Lyly. CUPID'S ARRAIGNMENT. FROM " GALATHEA." O yes ! O yes ! if any maid Whom leering Cupid has betrayed To frowns of spite, to eyes of scorn ; And would in madness, now see- torn The boy in pieces ; let her come Hither, and lay on him her doom. $8 [ARROWS FOR LOVE. O yes ! O yes ! has any lost A heart, which many a sigh hath cost ? Is any cozened of a tear, Which, as a pearl disdain doth wear? Here stands the thief; let her but come Hither, and lay on him her doom. Is any one undone by fire, And turned to ashes by desire ; Did ever any lady weep, Being cheated of her golden sleep, Stol'n by sick thoughts ? the pirate 's found, And in her tears he shall be drowned. Read his indictment, let him hear What he's to trust to. Boy, give ear! John Lyly. ARROWS FOR LOVE. FROM "SAPPHO AND PHAON." ( Vulcan singing at the forge.) My shag-hair Cyclops, come, let 's ply The Lamnian hammers lustily ; By my wife's sparrows, I wear these arrows ; I shall singing fly Through many a wanton's eye. MYRA. 39 These headed are with golden blisses, These silver ones feathered with kisses, But this of lead Strikes a clown dead, When in a dance He falls in a trance, To see his black-browed lass not buss him, And then whines out for death t'untruss him. So ! so ! our work being done, let 's play, Holiday ! boys, cry holiday ! John Lyly. MYRA. I, with whose colors Myra drest her head, I that wore poises of her own hands' making, I, that mine own name in the cambric read, By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking. Must I look on, in hope time coming may With change bring back my turn again to play ? I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found A garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers, Which I to wear about mine arms was bound, That each of us might know that all was ours. Must I now lead an idle life in wishes, And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes ? 40 ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. I, that did wear the ring her mother left, I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed, I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, I, who did make her blush when I was named ; Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked. Fulke Greville (Lord Brooke). TO HER EYES. FROM "CCELICA." Yon little stars that live in skies And glory in Apollo's glory, In whose aspect conjoined lies The heaven's will, and nature's story ; Joy to be likened to those eyes, Which eyes make all eyes glad or sorry. For when you place the thought above, These overrule your force by love. Fulke Greville (Lord Brooke). ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. FROM " ROSALIND J " EUPHUES' " GOLDEN LEGACY." Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet, Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. 4 1 Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed, amid my tender breast, My kisses are his daily feast, And yet, he robs me of my rest, — Ah ! wanton, will ye ? And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string, He music plays, if so I sing, He lends me every lovely thing ; Yet cruel he, my heart doth sting, — Whist, wanton, will ye ? Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence ; And bind you when you long to play, For your offense. I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin, — Alas ! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me ? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod ? 42 ROSALIND'S DESCRIPTION. He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou softly on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be, Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, O Cupid, so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee. Thomas Lodge. ROSALIND'S DESCRIPTION. FROM THE SAME. Like to the clear in highest sphere, Where all imperial glory shines, Of self-same color is her hair, Whether unfolded, or entwined : Heigho, fair Rosalind! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink ; The gods do fear when as they glow, And I do tremble when I think Heigho, would she were mine ! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud, That beautifies Aurora's face, Or like the silver, crimson shroud, That Phoebe's smiling looks doth grace Heigho, fair Rosalind ! ROSALIND'S DESCRIPTION. 43 Her lips are like two budded roses, Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, Within which bound she balm incloses Apt to entice a Deity : Heigho, would she were mine ! Her neck like to a stately tower, Where Love himself imprisoned lies, To watch for glances every hour, From her divine and sacred eyes : Heigho, fair Rosalind ! Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame Where nature moulds the dew of light, To feed Perfection with the same: Heigho, would she were mine ! With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, and sapphire blue, Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view : Heigho, fair Rosalind ! Nature herself her shape admires, The gods are wounded in her sight, And Love forsakes his heavenly fires, And at her eyes his brand doth light : Heigho, would she were mine ! 44 MONTANE 'S PRAISE OF FAIR PHCEBE. Then muse not, nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosalind, Since for her fair, there is fairer none ; Nor for her virtues so divine ; Heigho, fair Rosalind ! Heigho, my heart, would God that she were mine. Thomas Lodge. MONTANE'S PRAISE OF FAIR PHCEBE. Phcebe sat, Sweet she sate, Sweet sate Phcebe when I saw her ; White her brow, Coy her eye, Brow and eye, how much you please me Words I spent, Sighs I sent, Sighs and words could never draw her ; O, my love, Thou art lost, Since no sight could ever ease thee. Phcebe sate By a fount, Sitting by a fount I spied her, Sweet her touch, Rare her voice, THE DECEITFUL MISTRESS. 45 Touch and voice, what may distain thee ? As she sung I did sigh, And by sighs while that I tried her ; O, mine eyes, You did lose Her first sight, which want did pain you. Phoebe's flocks, White as wool, Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter ; Phoebe's eyes, Dove-like mild, Dove-like eyes, both mild and cruel. Montane swears In your lamps, He will die for to delight her. Phoebe yield, Or I die ; Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel ? Thomas Lodge. THE DECEITFUL MISTRESS. Now I find thy looks were feigned, Quickly lost, and quickly gained ; Soft thy skin like wool of weathers, Heart unstable, light as feathers, 46 THE DECEITFUL MISTRESS. Tongue untrusty, subtle-sighted, Wanton will, with change delighted. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason, Of thine eyes I made my mirror, From thy beauty came mine error ; All thy words I counted witty, All thy smiles I deemed pity ; Thy false tears, that me aggrieved, First of all, my heart deceived. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason ! Feigned acceptance, when I asked, Lovely words, with cunning masked, Holy vows but heart unholy ; Wretched man ! my trust was folly ! Lily-white, and pretty winking, Solemn vows, but sorry thinking. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason ! Now I see, O, seemly cruel, O, thus warm them at my fuel, Wit shall guide me in this durance, Since in love is no assurance ; THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 47 Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure, Beauty is a fading treasure. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason. Prime youth lasts not, age will follow, And make white those tresses yellow ; Wrinkled face, for looks delightful, Shall acquaint thee, dame despiteful ! And when time shall date thy glory, Then, too late, thou wilt be sorry. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason. Thomas Lodge. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountains yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. 48 MENAPHORrS SONG. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies ; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from your pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles .of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps, and amber studs ; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The shepherds swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning ; If these delights thy mind may move, Come live with me and be my love. Kit Marlowe. MENAPHORI'S SONG. Some say Love, Foolish Love, Doth rule and govern all the gods ; I say Love, Inconstant Love, Sets men's senses far at odds ; MENAPHORrS SONG. 49 Some swear Love, Smoothed-faced Love, Is sweetest sweet that man can have ; I say Love, Sour Love, Makes virtue yield as beauty's slave. A bitter sweet, a folly worst of all, That forceth wisdom to be folly's thrall. Love is sweet ! Wherein sweet? In fading pleasures that do pain ; Beauty sweet ! Is that sweet That yieldeth sorrow for a gain ? If love 's sweet, Herein sweet, That minute's joys are monthly woes. 'Tis not sweet, That is sweet, Now, where but repentance grows. Then love who list, if beauty be so sour, Labor for me, Love rest in prince's bower. Robert Greene. 5