From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
Sweet heart, arise! why do you sleep When lovers wanton sports do keep? The sun doth shine, the birds do sing, And May delight and joy doth bring: Then join we hands and dance till night, 'Tis pity love should want his right.
From ROBERT JONES' _Musical Dream_, 1609.
Sweet Kate Of late Ran away and left me plaining. Abide! (I cried) Or I die with thy disdaining. Te hee, quoth she; Make no fool of me; Men, I know, have oaths at pleasure, But, their hopes attainèd, They bewray they feignèd, And their oaths are kept at leisure.
Unkind, I find Thy delight is in tormenting: Abide! (I cried) Or I die with thy consenting. Te hee, quoth she, Make no fool of me; Men, I know, have oaths at pleasure, But, their hopes attainèd, They bewray they feignèd, And their oaths are kept at leisure.
Her words, Like swords, Cut my sorry heart in sunder, Her flouts With doubts Kept my heart-affections under. Te hee, quoth she, What a fool is he Stands in awe of once denying! Cause I had enough To become more rough, So I did--O happy trying!
Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory, Subdue her heart who makes me glad and sorry; Out of thy golden quiver, Take thou thy strongest arrow That will through bone and marrow, And me and thee of grief and fear deliver: But come behind, for, if she look upon thee, Alas! poor Love, then thou art woe-begone thee.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
Sweet Love, I will no more abuse thee, Nor with my voice accuse thee; But tune my notes unto thy praise And tell the world Love ne'er decays. Sweet Love doth concord ever cherish: What wanteth concord soon must perish.
From ROBERT JONES' _Ultimum Vale, or Third Book of Airs_ (1608).
Sweet Love, my only treasure, For service long unfeignèd Wherein I nought have gainèd, Vouchsafe this little pleasure, To tell me in what part My Lady keeps her heart.
If in her hair so slender, Like golden nets entwinèd Which fire and art have finèd, Her thrall my heart I render For ever to abide With locks so dainty tied.
If in her eyes she bind it, Wherein that fire was framèd By which it is inflamèd, I dare not look to find it: I only wish it sight To see that pleasant light.