Folksongs from another World

I love, and he loves me again,
    Yet dare I not tell who;
  For if the nymphs should know my swain,
    I fear they'd love him too;
      Yet if he be not known,
    The pleasure is as good as none,
For that's a narrow joy is but our own.
 
  I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
    They may not envy me;
  But then if I grow jealous mad
    And of them pitied be,
      It were a plague 'bove scorn;
    And yet it cannot be forborne
Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn.
 
  He is, if they can find him, fair
    And fresh, and fragrant too,
  As summer's sky or purgéd air,
    And looks as lilies do
      That are this morning blown:
    Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,
And fear much more that more of him be shown.
 
  But he hath eyes so round and bright,
    As make away my doubt,
  Where Love may all his torches light,
    Though Hate had put them out;
      But then t' increase my fears
    What nymph soe'er his voice but hears
Will be my rival, though she have but ears.
 
  I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
    And he loves me; yet no
  One unbecoming thought doth move
    From either heart I know:
      But so exempt from blame
    As it would be to each a fame,
If love or fear would let me tell his name.

Send home my long-strayed eyes to me, 
Which (oh) too long have dwelt on thee: 
Yet since there they have learned such ill,
   Such forced fashions,
   And false passions,
      That they be
      Made by thee
Fit for no good sight, keep them still.

Send home my harmless heart again, 
Which no unworthy thought could stain,
But if it be taught by thine
   To make jestings
   Of protestings,
      And cross both
      Word and oath,
Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes, 
That I may know, and see thy lies,
And may laugh and joy, when thou
   Art in anguish
   And dost languish
      For some one
      That will none,
Or prove as false as thou art now.

Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou power that canst sever
From me this ill,
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep;
And give me such reposes
That I, poor I,
May think thereby
I live and die
'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like [a]1 silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers
Melt, melt my [pains]2
With thy soft strains;
That, having ease me given,
With full delight
I leave this light,
And take my flight
[For]3 Heaven.

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Though I am young and cannot tell
Either what love or death is well,
Yet I have heard they both bear darts,
And both do aim at human hearts;
And then again I have been told,
Love wounds with heat, and death with cold;
So that I fear they do but bring
[Extreams]1 to touch, and mean one thing.

As in a ruin, we it call
One thing to be blown up, or fall;
Or to our end, like way [we]2 have,
By [a]3 flash of lightning, or a wave;
So love's inflamed shaft or brand,
May kill as soon as death's cold hand;
Except love's fires the virtue have
To fright the frost out of the grave.