Second Book of Songs and Airs

  Love is a bable,
  No man is able
To say 'tis this or 'tis that;
  So full of passions
  Of sundry fashions
'Tis like I cannot tell what.

  Love's fair in the cradle,
  Foul in the fable,
'Tis either too cold or too hot;
  An arrant liar,
  Fed by desire,
It is, and yet it is not.

  Love is a fellow,
  Clad oft in yellow,
The canker-worm of the mind
  A privy mischief,
  And such a sly thief
No man knows which way to find.

  Love is a wonder
  That's here and yonder,
As common to one as to moe;
  A monstrous cheater,
  Every man's debtor;
Hang him and so let him go.

Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly
Far from base earth, but not to mount too high;
  For true pleasure
  Lives in measure,
  Which if men forsake,
Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.

But my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,
Enamoured sought to woo the sun’s fair light,
  Whose rich brightness
  Moved their lightness
  To aspire so high
That all scorched and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie.

And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,
For Love did know that their desires were true;
  Though Fate frownèd,
  And now drownèd
  They in sorrow dwell,
It was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell.

Arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun,
Call all the winds to make you speedy wings,
And to my fairest Maya see you run
And weep your last while wantonly she sings;
Then if you cannot move her heart to pity,
Let Oh, alas, ay me be all your ditty.

Arise, my thoughts, no more, if you return
Denied of grace which only you desire,
But let the sun your wings to ashes burn
And melt your passions in his quenchless fire;
Yet, if you move fair Maya’s heart to pity,
Let smiles and love and kisses be your ditty.

Arise, my thoughts, beyond the highest star
And gently rest you in fair Maya’s eye,
For that is fairer than the brightest are;
But, if she frown to see you climb so high,
Couch in her lap, and with a moving ditty,
Of smiles and love and kisses, beg for pity.

Whither runneth my sweetheart?
Stay awhile, prithee. 
Not too fast! 
Too much haste 
Maketh waste. 
But if thou wilt needs depart 
Take my love with thee. 
Thy mind 
Doth bind 
Me to no vile condition;
So doth 
Thy truth 
Prevent me of suspicion.

Go thy ways, then, where thou please —
So I am by thee. 
Day and night 
I delight 
In thy sight. 
Never grief on me did seize 
When thou wast nigh me. 
My strength 
At length 
That scorned thy fair commandings 
Hath not 
Forgot 
The price of rash withstandings.

Now my thoughts are free from strife.
Sweet, let me kiss thee. 
Now can I 
Willingly 
Wish to die, 
For I do but loathe my life 
When I do miss thee. 
Come prove 
My love, 
My heart is not disguised. 
Love shown 
And known
Ought not to be despised.

My love is neither young nor old,
Not fiery-hot nor frozen-cold,
But fresh and fair as springing briar
Blooming the fruit of love's desire;

Not snowy-white nor rosy-red,
But fair enough for shepherd's bed;
And such a love was never seen
On hill or dale or country-green.

My love bound me with a kiss
  That I should no longer stay;
When I felt so sweet a bliss
  I had less power to part away:
Alas, that women doth not know
Kisses make men loath to go.

Yes, she knows it but too well,
  For I heard when Venus’ dove
In her ear did softly tell
  That kisses were the seals of love:
O muse not then though it be so,
Kisses make men loath to go.

Wherefore did she thus inflame
  My desires heat my blood,
Instantly to quench the same
  And starve whom she had given food?
I the common sense can show,
Kisses make men loath to go.

Had she bid me go at first
  It would ne’er have grieved my heart,
Hope delayed had been the worst;
  But ah to kiss and then to part!
How deep it struck, speak, gods, you know
Kisses make men loath to go.

  Love's god is a boy,
  None but cowherds regard him,
  His dart is a toy,
  Great opinion hath marred him:
  The fear of the wag
  Hath made him so brag;
  Chide him, he’ll flie thee
  And not come nigh thee.
Little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random,
For if you hit me, slave, I’ll tell your grandam.

  Fond love is a child
  And his compass is narrow,
  Young fools are beguiled
  With the fame of his arrow;
  He dareth not strike
  If his stroke do mislike:
  Cupid, do you hear me?
  Come not too near me.
Little boy, pretty knave, hence I beseech you,
For if you hit me, knave, in faith I’ll breech you.

  Th’ ape loves to meddle
  When he finds a man idle,
  Else is he a-flirting
  Where his mark is a-courting;
  When women grow true
  Come teach me to sue,
  Then I’ll come to thee
  Pray thee and woo thee.
Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger,
For if you hit me, knave, I’ll call thee, beggar.

Come, sorrow, come, come, 
Sweet scale 
By the which we ascend 
We ascend to the heavenly place, 
Where Virtue sitteth smiling 
To see how some look pale 
With fear to behold 
With fear to behold thy ill-favored face, 
Vain shows their sense beguiling. 
For mirth hath no assurance 
Nor warranty of durance.
Hence, pleasures, fly, sweet bait, 
On the which they may justly be said to be fools 
That surfeit by much tasting; 
Like thieves you lie in wait, 
Most subtly how to prepare silly souls 
For sorrows everlasting. 
Wise griefs have joyful turnings, 
Nice pleasures end in mournings.