When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, No constancy to love thee still: And prostitute affection so; Since we are taught no prayers to say Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve, nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my disdain shall be To love thee still, but go no more SONG. I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee; Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone, As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, The morning rose, that untouched stands, Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells! 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, 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. 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 : |