Second Set of Madrigals

Draw on, sweet Night, best friend unto those cares
  That do arise from painful melancholy;
My life so ill through want of comfort fares,
  That unto thee I consecrate it wholly.

Sweet Night, draw on; my griefs, when they be told
  To shades and darkness, find some ease from paining;
And while thou all in silence dost enfold,
  I then shall have best time for my complaining.

Where most my thoughts, there least mine eye is striking;
  Where least I come there most my heart abideth;
Where most I love I never show my liking;
  From what my mind doth hold my body slideth;[Pg 160]
I show least care where most my care dependeth;
  A coy regard where most my soul attendeth.

Despiteful thus unto myself I languish,
  And in disdain myself from joy I banish.
These secret thoughts enwrap me so in anguish
  That life, I hope, will soon from body vanish,
And to some rest will quickly be conveyèd
  That on no joy, while so I lived, hath stayèd.

Happy, O happy he, who not affecting
the endless toils attending worldly cares,
with mind repos'd, all discontents rejecting,
in silent peace his way to heav'n prepares;
deeming his life a Scene, the world a Stage,
whereon man acts his weary Pilgrimage.

I live, and yet methinks I do not breathe;
I thirst and drink, I drink and thirst again;
I sleep and yet do dream I am awake;
I hope for that I have; I have and want:
I sing and sigh; I love and hate at once.
  O, tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar
  Doth cause in store such want, in peace such war?

Risposta.
There is a jewel which no Indian mines
Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty;
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music’s strain:
  Seldom it come, to few from heaven sent,
  That much in little, all in nought, — Content.

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart:
  For those may fade or turn to ill,
   So thou and I shall sever:
Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,
And love me still but know not why;
  So hast thou the same reason still
   To doat upon me ever!

So light is love, in matchless beauty shining,
When she revisits Cypris' hallowed bowers
Two feeble doves, harnessed in silken twining,
Can draw her chariot midst the Paphian flowers.
Lightness to Love, how ill it fitteth!
So heavy on my heart she sitteth.

Come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing,
  Now sigh and groan!
Dead is my Love, my Hope, my Joy, my Spring;
  Dead, dead, and gone!
O, She that was your Summer’s Queen,
  Your days’ delight,[Pg 17]
Is gone and will no more be seen;
  O, cruel spite!
Break all your pipes that wont to sound
  With pleasant cheer,
And cast yourselves upon the ground
  To wail my Dear!
Come, shepherd swains, come, nymphs, and all a-row
  To help me cry:
Dead is my Love, and, seeing She is so,
  Lo, now I die!