This wrong the God of Music scorned from such a sottish judge, And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the piper trudge: Then Midas' head he so did trim That every age yet talks of him And Ph[oe]bus' right revengèd grudge.
From ROBERT DOWLAND's _Musical Banquet_, 1610. (The lines are assigned to Robert Deveureux, Earl of Essex.)
To plead my faith, where faith hath no reward, To move remorse where favour is not borne, To heap complaints where she doth not regard, Were fruitless, bootless, vain, and yield but scorn.
I lovèd her whom all the world admired, I was refused of her that can love none, And my vain hopes which far too high aspired Is dead and buried and for ever gone.
Forget my name since you have scorned my love, And woman-like do not too late lament: Since for your sake I do all mischief prove, I none accuse nor nothing do repent: I was as fond as ever she was fair, Yet loved I not more than I now despair.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
To shorten winter's sadness See where the nymphs with gladness Fa la la!
Disguisèd all are coming, Right wantonly a-mumming. Fa la la!
Though masks encloud their beauty, Yet give the eye her duty. Fa la la!
When Heaven is dark it shineth And unto love inclineth. Fa la la!
From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1600.
Toss not my soul, O Love, 'twixt hope and fear! Show me some ground where I may firmly stand, Or surely fall! I care not which appear, So one will close me in a certain band. When once of ill the uttermost is known; The strength of sorrow quite is overthrown!
Take me, Assurance, to thy blissful hold! Or thou Despair, unto thy darkest cell! Each hath full rest: the one, in joys enroll'd; Th' other, in that he fears no more, is well. When once the uttermost of ill is known, The strength of sorrow quite is overthrown.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Turn all thy thoughts to eyes, Turn all thy hairs to ears, Change all thy friends to spies And all thy joys to fears; True love will yet be free In spite of jealousy.
Turn darkness into day, Conjectures into truth, Believe what th' envious say, Let age interpret youth: True love will yet be free In spite of jealousy.
Wrest every word and look, Rack every hidden thought; Or fish with golden hook, True love cannot be caught: For that will still be free In spite of jealousy.