Songs of Sundry Kinds

Inconstant Laura makes me death to crave,
For wanting her I must embrace my grave;
A little grave will ease my malady
And set me free from love’s fell tyranny.
Intomb me then and show her where I lie,
And say I died through her inconstancy.

Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes
To lovers’ plaints with heart-sore throbs immixed,
When as my dear this way her pleasure takes,
Tell her with tears how firm my love is fixed;
And, Philomel, report my timerous fears,
And, echo, sound my heigh-ho’s in her ears:
But if she asks if I for love will die,
Tell her, Good faith, good faith, good faith, — not I.

Lady, the melting crystal of your eye
Like frozen drops upon your cheeks did lie;
Mine eye was dancing on them with delight,
And saw love’s flames within them burning bright,
Which did mine eye entice
To play with burning ice;
But O, my heart thus sporting with desire,
My careless eye did set my heart on fire.

O that a drop from such a sweet fount flying
Should flame like fire and leave my heart a-dying!
I burn, my tears can never drench it
Till in your eyes I bathe my heart and quench it:
But there, alas, love with his fire lies sleeping,
And all conspire to burn my heart with weeping.