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 Most merrily, I'll be sworn; For many an honest Indian ass Goes for an Unicorn. Farra, diddle dino; This is idle fino.
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 Who, to sweet home retired, Shuns glory so admired, And to himself lives free, Whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skies Falls down with foul disgrace before he rise.
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.
From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.
Happy, O! happy he, who not affecting The endless toils attending worldly cares, With mind reposed, all discontents rejecting, In silent peace his way to heaven prepares, Deeming this life a scene, the world a stage Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.
From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's _First Set Of Madrigals_, 1613.
Have I found her? O rich finding! Goddess-like for to behold, Her fair tresses seemly binding In a chain of pearl and gold. Chain me, chain me, O most fair, Chain me to thee with that hair!