Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining, Let them that miss the way be guided by the light, I know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining, Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night. Dame Cynthia, couch awhile; hold in thy horns for shining, And glad not low'ring night with thy too glorious rays; But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and re pining, That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise. And when my will is done, then Cynthia shine, good lady, All other nights and days in honour of that night, That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady, Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight. FROM THE SAME. THE gentle season of the year Hath made my blooming branch appear, And beautified the land with flowers; The air doth savour with delight, The heavens do smile to see the sight, And yet mine eyes augment their showers. VOL. I. Q The meads are mantled all with green, The trembling leaves have clothed the treen, The birds with feathers new do sing; But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack, Attire myself in mourning black, And as you see the scarlet rose In his sweet prime his buds disclose, My heart, that wonted was of yore, As doth the bird that's taken new, And mourns when all her neighbours sings. When every man is bent to sport, Then, pensive, I alone resort Into some solitary walk, As doth the doleful turtle dove, Who, having lost her faithful love, Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk. There to myself I do recount How far my woes my joys surmount, How love requiteth me with hate, And in this mood, charged with despair, I may have truce with this strange strife, And bring my soul to better rest. SONGS. FROM WILBYE'S MADRIGALS. EDIT. 1598. LADY, your words do spite me, Yet your sweet lips so soft kiss and delight me ; Your deeds my heart surcharg'd with overjoying, Your taunts my life destroying; Since both have force to kill me, Let kisses sweet, sweet kill me! My ghost from hence shall wander, THERE is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy, It makes men rich in greatest poverty, CHANGE me, O heaven! into the ruby stone Or if you will not make my flesh a stone, Love me not for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face; No, nor for my constant heart; For those may fail, or turn to ill, And thus we love shall sever: Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, And love me still, Yet know not why, So hast thou the same reason still, To dote upon me ever. I SANG Sometimes my thoughts and fancy's pleasure, Where then I list, or time serv'd best, While Daphne did invite me Το supper once, and drank to me to spite me: I smil'd, yet still did doubt her, And drank where she had drank before, to flout her, But O, while I did eye her, My eyes drank love, my lips drank burning fire. O LIGHT is love, in matchless beauty shining, So heavy on my heart she sitteth. FROM BIRD'S COLLECTION OF SONGS, &c. YOUR shining eyes and golden hair, Men cannot chuse but like them well; AMBITIOUS love hath forc'd me to aspire |