Wilt thou, Unkind! thus 'reave me Of my heart and so leave me? Farewell! But yet, or ere I part, O Cruel, Kiss me, Sweet, my Jewel! Farewell!
Hope by disdain grows cheerless, Fear doth love, love doth fear; Beauty peerless, Farewell!
If no delays can move thee, Life shall die, death shall live Still to love thee. Farewell!
Yet be thou mindful ever! Heat from fire, fire from heat, None can sever. Farewell!
True love cannot be changèd, Though delight from desert Be estrangèd. Farewell!
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Wise men patience never want, Good men pity cannot hide; Feeble spirits only vaunt Of revenge, the poorest pride: He alone forgive that can Bears the true soul of a man.
Some there are debate that seek, Making trouble their content; Happy if they wrong the meek, Vex them that to peace are bent: Such undo the common tie Of mankind, Society.
Kindness grown is lately cold, Conscience hath forgot her part; Blessèd times were known of old Long ere Law became an art: Shame deterred, not statutes then; Honest love was law to men.
Deeds from love, and words, that flow, Foster like kind April showers; In the warm sun all things grow, Wholesome fruits and pleasant flowers: All so thrives his gentle rays Whereon human love displays.
From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs or Airs_, 1600.
Woeful Heart, with grief oppressèd! Since my fortunes most distressèd From my joys hath me removèd, Follow those sweet eyes adorèd! Those sweet eyes wherein are storèd All my pleasures best belovèd.
Fly my breast--leave me forsaken-- Wherein Grief his seat hath taken, All his arrows through me darting! Thou mayst live by her sunshining: I shall suffer no more pining By thy loss than by her parting.
From THOMAS GREAVES' _Songs of Sundry Kinds_, 1604.
Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes To lovers' plaints with heart-sore throbs immixed, When as my dear this way her pleasure takes, Tell her with tears how firm my love is fixed; And, Philomel, report my timerous fears, And, echo, sound my heigh-ho's in her ears: But if she asks if I for love will die, Tell her, Good faith, good faith, good faith,--not I.
From FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599.
You blessèd bowers whose green leaves now are spreading, Shadow the sunshine from my mistress' face, And you, sweet roses, only for her bedding When weary she doth take her resting-place; You fair white lilies and pretty flowers all, Give your attendance at my mistress' call.