From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs or Airs_, 1600.
White as lilies was her face: When she smilèd She beguilèd, Quitting faith with foul disgrace. Virtue's service thus neglected. Heart with sorrows hath infected.
When I swore my heart her own, She disdainèd; I complainèd, Yet she left me overthrown: Careless of my bitter grieving, Ruthless, bent to no relieving.
Vows and oaths and faith assured, Constant ever, Changing never,-- Yet she could not be procured To believe my pains exceeding From her scant respect proceeding.
O that love should have the art, By surmises, And disguises, To destroy a faithful heart; Or that wanton-looking women Should reward their friends as foemen.
All in vain is ladies' love-- Quickly choosèd. Shortly loosèd; For their pride is to remove. Out, alas! their looks first won us, And their pride hath straight undone us.
To thyself, the sweetest Fair! Thou hast wounded, And confounded Changeless faith with foul despair; And my service hast envièd And my succours hast denièd.
By thine error thou hast lost Heart unfeignèd, Truth unstainèd. And the swain that lovèd most, More assured in love than many, Move despised in love than any.
For my heart, though set at nought, Since you will it, Spoil and kill it! I will never change my thought: But grieve that beauty e'er was born Thus to answer love with scorn.
From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's _First Book of Songs or Airs_, 1605.
Whither so fast? see how the kindly flowers Perfume the air, and all to make thee stay: The climbing wood-bine, clipping all these bowers, Clips thee likewise for fear thou pass away; Fortune our friend, our foe will not gainsay. Stay but awhile, Ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I'll my Ph[oe]be kiss.
Fear not, the ground seeks but to kiss thy feet; Hark, hark, how Philomela sweetly sings! Whilst water-wanton fishes as they meet Strike crotchet time amidst these crystal springs, And Zephyrus amongst the leaves sweet murmur rings. Stay but awhile, Ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I'll my Ph[oe]be kiss.
See how the helitrope, herb of the sun, Though he himself long since be gone to bed, Is not of force thine eye's bright beams to shun, But with their warmth his goldy leaves unspread, And on my knee invites thee rest thy head. Stay but awhile, Ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; She her Endymion, I'll my Ph[oe]be kiss.