But plucked and strained through ruder hands, But scent and beauty both are gone, Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile, And I will sigh, while some will smile, SONG. What means this strangeness now of late, This distance may consist with state, 'Tis either cunning or distrust, For if you mean to draw me on, If kindness cross your wished content, I'll give you all the love that's spent, THOMAS HEYWOOD. 15-16-. [“Pleasant D'alogues and Dramas." 1607.] SONG. PACK clouds away, and welcome day, To give my love good morrow, Wake from thy nest, Robin red-breast, And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair love good morrow. [“ The Fair Maid of the Exchange.” 1637.] Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so; See that your notes strain not too low, For still, methinks, I see her frown, Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go, tune your voices' harmony, And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Sing round about her rosy bed, That waking, she may wonder. Say to her, 'tis her lover true WILLIAM BROWNE. 1590-1645. ["Britannia's Pastorals." 1616.] SHALL I tell you whom I love? And if such a woman move, Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art: In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart. Some for less were deified. Wit she hath without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though, perhaps, not so to me. Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth : Likelihood enough to prove. Such she is and if you know Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so, That she be but somewhile young: Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone. WELCOME, WELCOME DO I SING. [From a inanuscript copy of his poems in the Lansdowne collection.] Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Far more welcome than the Spring; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring forever. Love, that to the voice is near, Breaking from your ivory pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. Love, that looks still on your eyes, To benumb our arteries, Shall not want the summer's sun. Love, that still may see your cheeks, 'Tis a fool, if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. |