First Set of Madrigals

I weigh not Fortune's frown nor smile,
I joy not much in earthly joys,
I seek not state, I reak [sic] not style,
I am not fond of Fancy’s toys.
I rest so pleased with what I have
I wish no more, no more I crave.

I tremble not at noise of war,
I quake not at the thunder’s crack,
I shrink not at a blazing star,
I sound not at the news of wreck,
I fear no loss, I hope no gain,
I envy none, I none disdain.

I see Ambition never pleased,
I see some Tantals starve in store,
I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased,
I see each Midas gape for more:
I neither want nor yet abound,
Enough’s a feast, content is crowned.

I feign not friendship where I hate,
I fawn not on the great for grace,
I prize, I praise a mean estate
Ne yet too lofty, nor too base,
This is all my choice, my cheer —
A mind content and conscience clear.

Fair Ladies that to Love captived are, 
And chaste desires do nourish in your mind, 
Let not her fault your sweet affections mar, 
Ne blot the bounty of all Woman-kind. 

‘Mongst thousands good, one wanton Dame to find, 
Amongst the Roses grow some wicked weeds, 
For this was not to love but lust inclined,
For love doth always bring forth, bounteous deeds.
And in each gentle heart desire of Honour breeds.

O that the learned Poets of this time, 
Who in a Love-sick line so well can speak,
Would not consume good Wit,
But with deep care some better subject find.
For if their Music please in earthly things,
How would it sound if strung with heavenly strings?

Now each flowery bank of May,
Woos the streams that glides away,
Mountains fann'd by a sweet gale,
Loves the humble looking Dale.
Windes the loved leaves do kiss,
Each thing tasteth of loves bliss.
Only I thought blest I be, by destiny.
Love confessed by her sweet breath, 
Whose love is life, whose hate is death.

Lais now old, that erst attempting Lass,
To Goddess Venus consecrates her Glass.
For she herself hath now no use of one
No dimpled cheeks hath she to gaze upon.
She cannot see, her spring-time damask grace
Nor dare she look upon her Winter face.

Ah, dear heart, why do you rise?
The light that shines comes from your eyes,
The day breaks not, it is my heart,
To think that you and I must part.
O stay, or else my joys will die,
And perish in their infancy. 
Thus march we playing to our latest rest,
Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.

Fair is the Rose, yet fades with heat or cold, 
Sweet are the Violets, yet soon grow old, 
The Lilly’s white, yet in one day ‘tis done,
White is the Snow yet melts against the Sun.
So white, so sweet was my fair Mistress’ face,
Yet altered quite in one short hour’s space.
So short lived beauty a vain gloss doth borrow, 
Breathing delight today, but none tomorrow.

Nay let me weep, though others’ tears be spent,
Though all eyes dried be, let mine be wet,
Unto thy grave I’ll pay this yearly rent,
Thy liveless Coarse demands of me this debt.
I owe more tears then ever Coarse did crave,
I’ll pay more tears than e’re was paid to grave.

Ne’re let the Sun with his deceiving light,
Seek to make glad these wat’ry eyes of mine,
My sorrow suits with melancholy night, 
I joy in dole, in languishment I pine,
My dearest friend is set, he was my Sun,
With whom my mirth, my joy, and all is done.

Yet if that age had frosted o’er his head, 
Or if his face had furrow'd been with years,
I would not thus bemoan that he is dead.
I might have been more niggard of my tears;
But O the Sun new rose is gone to bed,
And Lillies in their spring-time hang their head.

Trust not too much, fair youth, unto thy feature,
Be not enamoured of thy blushing hew,
Be gamesome whilst thou art a goodly creature,
The flowers will fade that in thy garden grew.
Sweet Violets are gathered in their spring,
White Primit falls withouten pitying.

How art thou thrall’d, O poor despised creature?
Sith by creation, Nature made thee free,
O traitorous eyes, to gaze so on her feature,
That quits with scorn thy dear lost liberty.

Farewell all joys, O Hell, now restless care’s my pillow, 
(Sweet Myrtle shades, farewell)
Now come sad Cypress and forlorn Love’s willow.
She smiles, she laughs, she joys at my tormenting,
(Break then poor heart)
Tossed on Despairs’ black billow, O let me die lamenting.

Dainty fine Bird, that art incaged there,
Alas, how like thine and my fortunes are?
Both prisoners be, and both singing thus, 
Strive to please her that hath imprisoned us.
Only thus we differ thou and I,
Thou liv'st singing, but I sing and die.

What is our life? a play of passion:
Our mirth? the music of division.
Our mothers’ wombs the tyring-houses be
Where we are drest for this short comedy:
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is
That sits and marks whoe’er doth act amiss:
Our graves, that hide us from the searching sun,
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done:
Thus march we playing to our latest rest,
Only we die in earnest, — that’s no jest.