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To maiden's vows and swearing,

Henceforth no credit give,
You may give them the hearing-

But never them believe;
They are as false as fair,

Unconstant, frail, untrue ;
For mine, alas! hath left me,

Falero, lero, loo.
'Twas I that paid for all things,

'Twas others drank the wine ;
I cannot now recall things,

I'm but a fool to pine :
'Twas I that beat the bush,

The birds to others flew,
For she, alas ! hath left me,

Falero, lero, loo.
If ever that Dame Nature,

For this false lover's sake,
Another pleasing creature

Like unto her would make ;
Let her remember this,

To make the other true,
For this, alas ! hath left me,

Falero, lero, loo.
No riches now can raise me,

No woe make me despair,
No misery amaze me,

Nor yet for want I care ;
I've lost a world itself,

My earthly heaven,-adieu.!
Since she, alas ! hath left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

69.

TELL ME NO MORE.
HENRY King, Bishop of Chichester, born 1591, die
TELL me no more how fair she is;

I have no mind to hear,
The story of that distant bliss

I never shall come near :
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.

And tell me not how fond I am

To tempt my daring fate,
From whence no triumph ever came

But to repent too late :
There is some hope ere long I may
In silence dote myself away.
I ask no pity, Love, from thee,

Nor will thy justice blame.
So that thou wilt not envy me

The glory of my flame, Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, In that it falls her sacrifice.

GO, HAPPY ROSE!

ROBERT HERRICK, born 1591.
Go, happy Rose! and interwove
With other flowers, bind my love.

Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,

That so oft has fetter'd me.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands ;

Tell her, if she struggle still,
I have myrtle rods at will,

For to tame, though not to kill.
Take thou my blessing thus, and go,
And tell her this,—but do not so!

Lest a handsome anger fly,
Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up, as well as I.

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From “ Pleasant Dialogues and Dramas." By THOMAS HEYWOOD, 1607.

Pack clouds away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sorrow ; Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft,

To give my love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I'll borrow Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,

To give my love good-morrow!

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,

Sing birds in every furrow,
And from each hill let music shrill,

Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird, and thrush, in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves among yourselves,

Sing my fair love good-morrow!

I PRYTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART.

SIR Joan SUCKLING, born 1613, died 1641,

I PRYTHEE send me back my heart,

Since I cannot have thine ;
For if from yours you will not part,

Why then should'st thou have mine?

Yet, now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain;
For thou'st a thief in either eye

Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,

And yet not lodge together?
O Love! where is thy sympathy

If thus our breasts thou sever ?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;
For, when I think I'm best resolved,

Then I am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe ;

I will no longer pine ;
For I'll believe I have her heart,

As much as she has mine,

TIIE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP.

RICHARD CRASHAW, born about 1615, died 1652.

The dew no more shall weep,

The primrose's pale cheek to deck ;
The dew no more shall sleep,

Nuzzled in the lily's neck :
Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

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