From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air, Thrice sit thou mute in the enchanted chair, Then thrice-three times tie up this true love's knot, And murmur soft "She will or she will not."
Go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire, These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar, This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave, That all my fears and cares an end may have.
Then come, you Fairies! dance with me a round! Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound! --In vain are all the charms I can devise: She hath an art to break them with her eyes.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Thus I resolve and Time hath taught me so: Since she is fair and ever kind to me, Though she be wild and wanton-like in show, Those little stains in youth I will not see. That she be constant, heaven I oft implore; If prayers prevail not, I can do no more.
Palm-tree the more you press, the more it grows; Leave it alone, it will not much exceed: Free beauty, if you strive to yoke, you lose, And for affection strange distaste you breed. What nature hath not taught no art can frame; Wild-born be wild still, though by force you tame.
Thus saith my Chloris bright When we of love sit down and talk together:-- "Beware of Love, dear; Love is a walking sprite, And Love is this and that And, O, I know not what, And comes and goes again I wot not whether."[21] No, no, these are but bugs to breed amazing, For in her eyes I saw his torch-light blazing.
From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets to Five Voices_, 1595.
Thus saith my Galatea: Love long hath been deluded, When shall it be concluded?
The young nymphs all are wedded: Ah, then why do I tarry? Oh, let me die or marry.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
To his sweet lute Apollo sang the motions of the spheres, The wondrous orders of the stars whose course divides the years, And all the mysteries above; But none of this could Midas move: Which purchased him his ass's ears.
Then Pan with his rude pipe began the country wealth t' advance, To boast of cattle, flocks of sheep, and goats on hills that dance, With much more of this churlish kind, That quite transported Midas' mind, And held him wrapt in trance.