Musicke of Sundrie Kindes

Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye,
If now I be disdained I wish my heart had never known ye.
What? I that loved and you that liked shall we begin to wrangle?
No, no no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle.

If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me
Or if my hands had strayed but a touch, then justly might you leave me.
I asked you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me?
No no no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me.

The sun whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,
And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder,
Where beauty moves, and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me
There, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me.

Come, Phyllis, come into these bowers:
Here shelter is from sharpest showers,
Cool gales of wind breathe in these shades,
Danger none this place invades;
  Here sit and note the chirping birds
  Pleading my love in silent words.

Come, Phyllis, come, bright heaven’s eye
Cannot upon thy beauty pry;
Glad Echo in distinguished voice
Naming thee will here rejoice;
  Then come and hear her merry lays
  Crowning thy name with lasting praise.

What then is love, sings Corydon,
Since Phyllida is grown so coy?
A flattering glass to gaze upon,
A busy jest, a serious toy,
A flower still budding, never blown,
A scanty dearth in fullest store
Yielding least fruit where most is sown.
  My daily note shall be therefore —
  Heigh ho, chil love no more.

’Tis like a morning dewy rose
Spread fairly to the sun’s arise,
But when his beams he doth disclose
That which then flourish’d quickly dies;
It is a seld-fed dying hope,
A promised bliss, a salveless sore,
An aimless mark, and erring scope.
  My daily note shall be therefore, —
  Heigh ho, chil love no more.

’Tis like a lamp shining to all,
Whilst in itself it doth decay;
It seems to free whom it doth thrall,
And lead our pathless thoughts astray.
It is the spring of wintered hearts
Parched by the summer’s heat before
Faint hope to kindly warmth converts.
  My daily note shall be therefore —
  Heigh ho, chil love no more.

Now I see thy looks were feignèd
Quickly lost, and quickly gainèd;
Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers,
Heart inconstant, light as feathers,
Tongue untrusty, subtle sighted,
Wanton will with change delighted.
  Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
  Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Of thine eye I made my mirror,
From thy beauty came my error,
All thy words I counted witty,
All thy sighs I deemèd pity,
Thy false tears, that me aggrievèd
First of all my trust deceivèd.
  Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
  Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Feigned acceptance when I askèd,
Lovely words with cunning maskèd,
Holy vows, but heart unholy;
Wretched man, my trust was folly;
Lily white, and pretty winking,
Solemn vows but sorry thinking.
  Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
  Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Now I see, O seemly cruel,
Others warm them at my fuel,
Wit shall guide me in this durance
Since in love is no assurance:
Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure,
Beauty is a fading treasure.
  Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
  Cupid, plague thee for thy treason!

Prime youth lasts not, age will follow
And make white those tresses yellow;
Wrinkled face, for looks delightful,
Shall acquaint the dame despiteful.
And when time shall date thy glory,
Then too late thou wilt be sorry.
  Siren, pleasant foe to reason,
  Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Go, Passions, to the cruel fair,
Plead my sorrows never ceasing;
Tell her those smiles are empty air,
Growing hopes but not increasing,
Hasting, wasting, with swift pace,
Date of joy in dull disgrace.

Urge her but gently, I request,
With breach of faith and wrack of vows;
Say that my grief and mind's unrest
Lives in the shadow of her brows,
Plying, flying, there to die
In sad woe and misery.

Importune pity at the last,
(Pity in those eyes should hover);
Recount my sighs and torments past
As annals of a constant lover
Spending, ending, many days
Of blasted hopes and slack delays.

How shall I then describe my Love?
When all men’s skilful art
Is far inferior to her worth,
To praise the unworthiest part.

She’s chaste in looks, mild in her speech,
In actions all discreet,
Of nature loving, pleasing most,
In virtue all complete.

And for her voice a Philomel,
Her lips may all lips scorn;
No sun more clear than is her eye,
In brightest summer morn.

A mind wherein all virtues rest
And take delight to be,
And where all virtues graft themselves
In that most fruitful tree:

A tree that India doth not yield,
Nor ever yet was seen,
Where buds of virtue always spring,
And all the year grow green.

That country’s blest wherein she grows,
And happy is that rock
From whence she springs: but happiest he
That grafts in such a stock.

There is a Lady sweet and kind,
Was never face so pleased my mind;
I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion and her smiles,
Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles;
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.

Her free behavior, winning looks,
Will make a Lawyer burn his books;
I touched her not, alas! not I,
And yet I love her till I die.

Had I her fast betwixt mine arms,
Judge you that think such sports were harms;
Were't any harm? No, no, fie, fie!
For I will love her till I die.

Should I remain confinèd there
So long as Phœbus in his sphere,
I to request, she to deny,
Yet would I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range
Her country so my love doth change;
But change she earth or change she sky,
Yet will I love her till I die.

Unto the temple of thy beauty,
  And to the tomb where pity lies,
I, pilgrim-clad with zeal and duty,
  Do offer up my heart, mine eyes.
My heart, lo! in the quenchless fire,
  On love’s burning altar lies,
Conducted thither by desire
  To be beauty’s sacrifice.

But pity on thy sable hearse,
  Mine eyes the tears of sorrow shed;
What though tears cannot fate reverse,
  Yet are they duties to the dead.
O, Mistress, in thy sanctuary
  Why wouldst thou suffer cold disdain
To use his frozen cruelty,
  And gentle pity to be slain?

Pity that to thy beauty fled,
  And with thy beauty should have lived,
Ah, in thy heart lies burièd,
  And nevermore may be revived;
Yet this last favour, dear, extend,
  To accept these vows, these tears I shed,
Duties which I thy pilgrim send,
  To beauty living, pity dead.