Time, that all things In order brings, Hath taught me how To be more slow In giving faith to speech, Since women's words No truth affords, And when they kiss They think by this Us men to over-reach.
From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets to Five Voices_, 1595.
About the maypole new, with glee and merriment, While as the bagpipe tooted it, Thyrsis and Chloris fine together footed it: And to the joyous instrument Still they went to and fro, and finely flaunted it, And then both met again and thus they chaunted it. Fa la!
The shepherds and the nymphs them round enclosèd had, Wond'ring with what facility, About they turn'd them in such strange agility; And still when they unloosèd had, With words full of delight they gently kissed them, And thus sweetly to sing they never missed them. Fa la!
From JOHN WILBYE's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1598.
Adieu, sweet Amaryllis! For since to part your will is, O heavy, heavy tiding! Here is for me no biding. Yet once again, ere that I part with you, Adieu, sweet Amaryllis; sweet, adieu!
From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Madrigals_, 1594.
April is in my mistress' face, And July in her eyes hath place; Within her bosom is September, But in her heart a cold December.
From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
Arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun, Call all the winds to make you speedy wings, And to my fairest Maya see you run And weep your last while wantonly she sings; Then if you cannot move her heart to pity, Let _Oh, alas, ay me_ be all your ditty.
Arise, my thoughts, no more, if you return Denied of grace which only you desire, But let the sun your wings to ashes burn And melt your passions in his quenchless fire; Yet, if you move fair Maya's heart to pity, Let smiles and love and kisses be your ditty.
Arise, my thoughts, beyond the highest star And gently rest you in fair Maya's eye, For that is fairer than the brightest are; But, if she frown to see you climb so high, Couch in her lap, and with a moving ditty, Of smiles and love and kisses, beg for pity.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Awake, awake! thou heavy sprite That sleep'st the deadly sleep of sin! Rise now and walk the ways of light, 'Tis not too late yet to begin. Seek heaven early, seek it late; True Faith finds still an open gate.