Songs to 3. voices.
|I.||Fly Loue Aloft|
|II.||Away, thou shalt not loue mee.|
|III.||Ay mee, can euery rumor.|
|IIII.||Weepe O mine eies.|
|V.||Deere pittie how ? ah how ?|
|VI.||Yee restlesse thoughts.|
|Songs to 4. voices.|
|VII.||VVhat needeth all this travaile and turmoiling.|
|VIII.||O fooles, can you not see a traffick neerer.|
|IX.||Alas what hope of speeding.|
|X.||Lady when I behold the Roses sprouting.|
|XI.||Thus saith my Cloris bright.|
|XII.||Adew sweet Amarillis.|
|Songs to 5. voices.|
|XIII.||Dye haplesse man, Since she denies thee grace.|
|XIIII.||I fall, I fall, O stay mee.|
|XV.||And though my Loue abounding.|
|XVI.||I alwais beg, Yet neuer am releeued.|
|XVII.||Thus Loue commanuds.|
|XVIII.||Lady, your words doe spight mee.|
|XIX.||Alas, what a wretched life is this.|
|XX.||Vnkinde, O stay thy flying.|
|XXI.||I Soung sometimes my thoughts and fancies pleasure.|
|XXII.||Flora gaue mee fairest flowers.|
|Songs to 6. voices.|
|XXIII.||Sweet Loue, if thou wilt gaine a Monarches glory.|
|XXIV.||Lady when I behold the Roses sprouting.|
|XXV.||When shall my wretched life giue place to death ?|
|XXVI.||Of ioyes and pleasing paines, I late went singing.|
|XXVII.||My throte is sore, my voice is horse with skriking.|
|XXVIII.||Cruell,behold my heauie ending.|
|XXIX.||Thou art but yong thou saist.|
|XXX.||Why dost thou shoot, And I seeke not to shield mee.|
|F I N I S.|
Fly Loue aloft, to heauen and looke out Fortune,
Then sweetly, sweetly, sweetly hir importune,
That I from my Calisto best belouéd,
As you and she set downe be neuer mouéd,
And loue, to Carimel see you commend me,
Fortune for his sweet sake, may chaunce befriend me.
Away, away, thou shalt not loue mee.
Away, away, thou shalt not loue mee.
So shall my loue seeme greater,
And I shall loue the better,
Shall it be so? What say you?
Why speake you not I pray you?
Nay then I know you loue mee,
That so you may disproue mee.
Ay mee, Can euery rumor,
Thus start my Ladies humor?
Name yee some gallant to hir;
why straight forsooth I woe hir,
Then burst she forth in passion,
You men loue but for fashion,
Yet sure I am that no man,
Euer so louéd woman,
Yet alas Loue be wary,
For women be contrary.
Weepe O mine eies, & cease not:
Your springtides out alas, me thinkes increase not.
O when begin you to swell so high,
That I may drowne mee in you?
Deere pittie how wouldst thou become her?
That best becommeth beauties best attyring,
Shall my desert deserue no favour from her?
But still to wast my selfe in deep admiring,
Like him that calls to Eccho to relieue him,
Still tels and heares the tale that grieues him.
Yee restles thoughts
that harbour discontent,
Cease your assaults:
and let my hart lament,
And let my tongue haue leaue to tell my griefe,
That she may pittie, though not graunt reliefe.
Pittie would help what loue hath almost slaine,
And salue the wound, that festred this disdaine.
What needeth all this trauayle and turmoyling,
Shortning the lyfes sweet pleasure.
To seek this far fetcht treasure,
In those hot clymates, Vnder Phoebus broyling.
O fooles, can you not see a traffick neerer,
In my sweet Ladies face where Nature showeth,
what euer treasure eye sees, or hart knoweth?
Rubies and Diamonds daintie,
And orient Perles such plentie,
Corral & Ambergris, sweeter & deerer,
Then which the South seas or Moluccas lend vs,
Or either Indies, East or West, do send vs.
Alas, what hope of speeding,
Wher hope beguild lies bleeding;
She bad come, when she spide me:
And when I came she flyde me,
Thus when I was beguiléd,
She at my sighing smiléd.
But if you take such pleasure,
Of hope & ioy, my treasure,
By deceipt to bereaue me,
Loue mee and so deceiue mee.
Lady, when I behold the Roses sprouting,
Which clad in damaske mantells deck the arbours:
And then behold your lips, where sweet loue harbours,
My eyes presents me with a double doubting:
For viewing both a like, hardly my mind supposes,
Whether the Roses be your lips, or your lips the Roses.
Thus saith my Cloris bright,
When we of Loue sit downe and talke together,
Beware of Loue, Loue is a walking sprite,
And Loue is this and that,
And O I wot not what,
And comes and goes againe, I wot not whether.
No, no, these are but bugs to breed amazing,
For in her eies I saw his torch light blazing.
Adew, sweet Amarillis:
For since to part your will is,
O heauy tyding,
Here is for mee no biding:
Yet once againe ere that I part with you,
Amarillis, sweet Adew.
Dye haplesse man, since shee denies thee grace:
Dye and dispaire, sith she doth scorne to loue thee:
Farewell most fayer, though thou dost fayer deface,
Sith for my duteous loue, thou dost reproue mee:
Those smiling eies, that sometimes act reuiuéd,
Clowded with frownes, haue mee of life depriuéd.
I fall, I fall, O stay mee,
Deere loue with ioyes yee slay mee,
Of life your lips depriue mee,
Sweet, let your lips reuiue mee,
O whether are you hasting,
And leaue my life thus wasting?
My health on you relyeing,
'Twer sinne to leaue me dyeing.
And though my loue abounding,
Did make mee fall a sounding,
Yet am I well contented,
Stil so to bee tormented:
And death can neuer feare mee,
As long as you are neare me.
I allwaies beg, yet neuer am releeuéd:
I greeue, because my griefes are not beleeuéd:
I cry aloud in vaine, my voice out stretchéd:
And get but this, mine Ecco cals mee wretchéd.
Thus Loue commaunds,
that I in vaine complaine mee:
And sorrow will,
that she shall still disdaine mee:
Yet did I hope,
which hope my life prolongéd,
To heare hir say
(alas) his Loue was wrongéd.
Lady, your words doe spight mee,
Yet your sweet lippes so soft, Kisse and delight mee:
Your deeds my hart surchargd with ouer ioying,
Your taunts my lyfe destroying.
Since both haue force to spill mee,
Let kisses sweet, sweet kill me.
Knights fight with swords & launces,
Fight you with smiling glaunces,
So like Swans of Leander,
My ghost from hence shall wander.
Singing and dying,
Singing and dying.
Alas, what a wretched life is this, Nay, what a death,
Wher the tyrant Loue commaundeth?
My flouring daies are in their prime declining,
All my proud hope, quite falne, and live vntwining:
My ioyes each after other, in hast are flying,
And leaue mee dying,
For hir that skornes my crying:
O shee from hence departs,
My Loue refraining,
For whom all hartles,
Alas, I die complayning.
Vnkinde, O stay thy flying,
And if I needs must dye,
Pitty mee dying.
But in thee, my hart is lying,
And no death can assaile mee,
Alas till life doth faile thee.
If the Fates bid thee be fleeting,
Stay for mee,
Whose poore hart thou hast in keeping.
I soung sometimes my thoughts and fancies pleasure,
Wher then I list, or time be seru'd best and leasure,
While Daphne did inuite mee,
To supper once, and dranck to mee to spite mee.
I smild: yet still did doubt her,
And dranck wher shee had drank before, to flout hir.
But o while I did eie hir,
Myne eyes dranck Loue, my lips dranck burning fier.
Flora gaue me fayrest flowers,
None so fayer in Floras treasure:
These I plast on Phillis Bowers,
She was pleasd, and she my pleasure:
Smiling meadowes seeme to say,
Come yee wantons, heere to play.
Sweet Loue: If thou wilt gaine a Monarches glory,
Subdue her hart, who makes mee glad and sorry,
Out of thy golden quiuer,
Take thou thy strongest arrow,
That will through bone and marrow,
And mee and thee, of griefe and feare deliuer:
But come behinde, for if shee looke vppon thee,
Alas poore Loue, then thou art woe beegon thee.
(These lyrics are the same as Number X)
When shall my wretched life giue place to death?
That my sad cares may be inforc'd to leaue mee:
Come sadest shadow, stop my vitall breath.
For I am thine, then let not care bereaue thee,
Of thy sad thrall: But with thy fatall dart,
Kill care, and mee, While care lies at my hart.
Of ioyes, & pleasing paines, I late went singing,
O ioyes with paines, O paines with ioyes consenting:
And little thought as then of now repenting:
But now, think of my then sweet bitter stinging:
All day long, I my hands goe wringing,
The baleful notes, of which my sad tormenting,
Are, ruth, & mone, frights, sobs, & loud lamenting,
From hills and dales in my dull eares still ringing.
My throte is sore, my voice is horse with skriking :
My rests, are sighes, deep from the hart root fetchéd.
My song runs all on sharps, & with oft striking,
Time on my brest, I shrink with hands out stretchéd.
Thus still, & still I sing, and neare am linning:
For still the close, points to my first beginning.
Cruell behold, my heauie ending,
See what you wrought, by your disdaining,
Causelesse I die, Loue still attending,
Your hopeles pitty of my complaining:
Suffer those eies which thus haue slaine mee,
With speed to end their killing power:
So shall you proue how Loue doth paine mee:
And see me dye still yower.
Thou art but yong thou sai'st,
And loues delight thou sai'st not:
O take time while thou mai'st,
Least when thou sould'st thou mai'st not.
If loue shall then assaile thee,
A double anguish will torment thee:
And thou wilt wish, (But wishes all wil faile thee,)
O mee, that I were yong againe; and so repent thee.
Why dost thou shoote, and I seek not to shield mee?
I yeeld (sweet Loue), spare then my wounded liuer,
And do not make my hart, thy arrowes quiuer.
O hold; what needs this shooting, when I yeeld mee?