Shall I then with patient mind Still attend her wayward pleasure? Time will make her prove more kind, Let her coyness then take leisure: She is worthy such a treasure.
From RICHARD ALISON's _An Hours Recreation in Music_, 1606.
Shall I abide this jesting? I weep, and she's a-feasting! O cruel fancy, that so doth blind me To love one that doth not mind me!
Can I abide this prancing? I weep, and she's a-dancing! O cruel fancy, so to betray me! Thou goest about to slay me.
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee When the evening beams are set? Shall I not excluded be, Will you find no feignèd let? Let me not, for pity, more Tell the long hours at your door.
Who can tell what thief or foe, In the covert of the night, For his prey will work my woe, Or through wicked foul despite? So may I die unredrest Ere my long love be possest.
But to let such dangers pass, Which a lover's thoughts disdain, 'Tis enough in such a place To attend love's joys in vain: Do not mock me in thy bed, While these cold nights freeze me dead.
From ROBERT JONES' _Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs_ (1608).
Shall I look to ease my grief? No, my sight is lost with eying: Shall I speak and beg relief? No, my voice is hoarse with crying: What remains but only dying?
Love and I of late did part, But the boy, my peace envying, Like a Parthian threw his dart Backward, and did wound me flying: What remains but only dying?
She whom then I lookèd on, My remembrance beautifying, Stays with me though I am gone, Gone and at her mercy lying: What remains but only dying?
Shall I try her thoughts and write? No I have no means of trying: If I should, yet at first sight She would answer with denying: What remains but only dying?
Thus my vital breath doth waste, And, my blood with sorrow drying, Sighs and tears make life to last For a while, their place supplying: What remains but only dying?
From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Airs_, 1601.
She whose matchless beauty staineth What best judgment fair'st maintaineth, She, O she, my love disdaineth.
Can a creature, so excelling, Harbour scorn in beauty's dwelling, All kind pity thence expelling?
Pity beauty much commendeth And th' embracer oft befriendeth When all eye-contentment endeth.