My sheep are lost for want of food And I so wood[19] That all the day I sit and watch a herd-maid gay; Who laughs to see me sigh so sore, Hey ho! chil love no more.
Her loving looks, her beauty bright, Is such delight! That all in vain I love to like, and lose my gain For her, that thanks me not therefore. Hey ho! chil love no more.
Ah wanton eyes! my friendly foes And cause of woes; Your sweet desire Breeds flames of ice, and freeze in fire! Ye scorn to see me weep so sore! Hey ho! chil love no more.
Love ye who list, I force him not: Since God is wot, The more I wail, The less my sighs and tears prevail. What shall I do? but say therefore, Hey ho! chil love no more.
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Airs or Fantastic Spirits_, 1608.
Though my carriage be but careless, Though my looks be of the sternest, Yet my passions are compareless; When I love, I love in earnest.
No; my wits are not so wild, But a gentle soul may yoke me; Nor my heart so hard compiled, But it melts, if love provoke me.
From ROBERT JONES' _Musical Dream_, 1609. (This song is also printed in Thomas Campion's _Two Books of Airs_, circ. 1613.)
Though your strangeness frets my heart, Yet must I not complain; You persuade me 'tis but art Which secret love must feign; If another you affect, 'Tis but a toy, t' avoid suspect. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing.
When your wish'd sight I desire, Suspicion you pretend, Causeless you yourself retire Whilst I in vain attend, Thus a lover, as you say, Still made more eager by delay. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing.
When another holds your hand You'll swear I hold your heart; Whilst my rival close doth stand And I sit far apart, I am nearer yet than they, Hid in your bosom, as you say. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing.
Would a rival then I were Or[20] else a secret friend, So much lesser should I fear And not so much attend. They enjoy you, every one, Yet must I seem your friend alone. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing.
Thrice blessèd be the giver That gave sweet love that golden quiver, And live he long among the gods anointed That made the arrow-heads sharp-pointed: If either of them both had quailèd, She of my love and I of hers had failèd.