A booke of Ayres with a Triplicitie of Musicke

O Lord 
O Lord thy faithfulness and praise
   I will with viol sing;
My harp shall sound thy praise always 
laud and praise,
   O Israel’s holy King:
My mouth will joy, with pleasant voice
   When I shall sing to thee, 
And eke my soul will much rejoice
   For thou hast made me free.

If ever hapless woman had a cause
To breath her plaintes into the open ayre,
And never suffer inward griefe to pause
Or seeke her sorrow shaken soules repayre
Then I for I have lost my onelie brother
Whose like this age can scarsly yeeld another.

Come therefore mournefull Muses and lament,
Forsake all wanton pleasing motions,
Bedew your cheekes, stil shal my teares be spent:
Yet still encreast with inundations,
For must I weepe, since I have lost my brother,
Whose like this age can scarsly yeeld another.

The cruell hand of murther cloyde with bloud
Lewdly deprivde him of his mortal life:
Woe the death attended blades that stoode,
In opposition gainst him in the strife,
Wherein he fell, and where I lost a brother,
Whose like this age can scarsly yeeld another.

Then unto griefe let me a Temple make,
And mourning dayly, enter sorrowes portes,
Knocke on my breast, sweete brother for thy sake,
Nature and love will both be my consorts,
And helpe me aye to wayle my onely brother,
Whose like this age can scarsly yeeld another.

When from my love I looked for love and kind affections due, 
To well I found her vows to prove most faithless and untrue 
For when I did ask her why 
Most sharply she did reply 
That she with me did ne’re agree 
To love but jestingly.

Mark but the subtle policies that female lovers find, 
Who loves to fix their constancies, like feathers in the wind
Though they swear, vow and protest, 
That they love you chiefly best, 
Yet by and by they’ll all deny, 
And say ‘twas but in jest.

Who doth behold my mistress’ face,
   And seeth not, good hap hath he.
Who hears her speak and marks her grace 
   Shall think none ever spake but she.
In short for to resound her praise,
She is the fairest of her days.

Who knows her wit and not admires:
   Shall show himself devoid of skill, 
Her virtues kindle strange desires, 
   In those that think upon her still.
In short, for to resound her praise,
She is the fairest of her days.

Her red is like unto the rose, 
   When from a bud unto the sun, 
Her tender leaves she doth disclose, 
   The first degree of ripeness won.
In short, for to resound her praise 
She is the fairest of her days.

And with her red mix’d is a white,
   Like to that same of faire moonshine
That doth upon the water light, 
   And makes the colour seem divine.
In short, for to resound her praise,
She is the fairest of her days.

   If there be anyone whom love hath wounded,
      And of the hurt is near his death. 
   If there be any one in grief confounded,
      And still with sighs doth fetch his breath. 
Such is my case, let him come sit with me and mourn,
Whom grief doth gripe and Cupid blind doth overturn.

   If there be any one which hath been racked,
      And joint from joint is all to torn, 
   If there be any one these pangs have smacked, 
      And in his heart with love doth burn, 
Such is my case, come let him sit with me and mourn,
For I am rack’d and scorch’d with love, and left forlorn. 

   If there be anyone in ship oppressed, 
      At pinch of wreck to drownèd be:
   If there be any one with waves betossed,
      Or blinded that he cannot see,
Such is my case, let him come sit with me and mourn,
Whom shipwreck spoils and eyes put out, as lovers’ scorn.

   If there be anyone that fraud hath perplex’d, 
      Or burst his heart at loves command, 
   If there be anyone, whom all griefs have vex’d, 
      Or in hell’s pains do daily stand, 
Such is my case, let him come sit with me and mourn, 
That feels hell’s pain and lover’s grief with love’s greater scorn. 

I heard of late that Love was fall’n asleep
   Too late, alas, I find it was not so.
Methought, I saw the little villain weep, 
   But thief he laughs at them that wail in woe.
I dreamt his bow was broke and he was slain:
But lo, awaked, I see all whole again.

His blinking eyes will ever be awake, 
   His idle head is full of laughing toys, 
His bow and shafts are tickle things to take, 
   It is no meddling with such apish boys.
For they shall find that in his fetters fall, 
Love is a deadly thing to deal withal. 

Yet where the wretch doth take a happy vein,
   It is the kindest worm that ever was,
But let him catch a coy conceit again,
   In frantic fits, he doth a fury pass.
So that, in sum, who hopes of happy joy, 
Take heed of Love, it is a parlous boy. 

All my wits hath will enwrapped,
All my sense desire entrapped.
All my faith to fancy fixed,
All my joys to love amixed. 
All my love I offer thee, 
Once for all yet look on me.

Let me see thy heavenly feature, 
Oh heavens, what a heavenly Creature, 
All the powers of heaven preserve thee, 
Love himself is sworn to serve thee, 
Princess in a Goddess’ place, 
Blessed be that Angel’s face. 

Looke how Love thy servant dieth,
Hark how Hope for comfort crieth, 
Take some pity on poor Fancy, 
Let not Fancy prove a franzy, 
Comfort this poor heart of mine, 
Love and I and all are thine.

Go, wailing verse, the issue of thy sire,
   Begot on sighs which vent from my torn heart.
Tell thou thy parent’s never quenched desire,
   Tell of his griefs and of his endless smart,
Tell of his passions and his sad laments 
How still he sues hard, she yet ne’re relents.

Deep sobs, the silent orators of Love, 
   Sad sighs, the muttering echoes of my pain, 
Heart-renting groans, the agent which would move, 
   Compassion with that cheek bedewèd rain. 
Rain which doth trickle from my watery eyes,
Hoping at length she’ll hear my doleful cries. 

But, Oh! would that sweet fair had been the butt,
   For Cupid to have aimed at with his shafts, 
Then had not these my passions bolted out, 
   Blazing my follies unto wise men’s hates.
Then could not I, deciphering my harms,
Sought to have gained that fair with my rude charms.

But why wish I to Cupid so much good, 
   When he hath broke his shafts and silver bow, 
And finds a flame enkindled in my blood, 
   Which neither ice can quench nor mountain snow?
And sure no marvel if he conquer men, 
When gods so fair a saint have never seen.

Her eyes like globes contain a thousand orbs, 
   Her ruby lips, her pearled teeth in number, 
With that sweet tongue such harmony affords, 
   As with applause makes all the world to wonder,
To wonder at her only and no other,
Since Cupid did mistake her for his mother.

A pretty duck there was that said,
   To whom shall I make moan?
I have been long a pretty maid,
And yet I lie alone.

Alone I lie in deep despair, 
   Which kills my lovely heart, 
For none will my sweet joys repair, 
Or play a lover’s part.

A tickling part that maidens love, 
   But I can never get, 
Yet long have sought, and still do crave, 
At rest my heart to set. 

Of all the birds that I do know
  Philip, my sparrow, hath no peer:
For sit she high or sit she low,
  Be she far off or be she near,
There is no bird so fair, so fine,
Nor yet so fresh as this of mine.
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still yet yet yet.

Come in a morning merrily,
  When Philip hath been lately fed,
Or in an evening soberly,
  When Philip list to go to bed :
It is a heaven to heare my Philipe,
How she can chirp with merry lip.
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still yet yet yet.

She never wanders far abroad;
  But is at home when I do call,
If I command, she lays on load
  With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
That I believe she hath no peer.
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still yet yet yet.

And yet besides all this good sport,
  My Philip can both sing and dance,
With new-found toys of sundry sort
  My Philip can both prick and prance:
And if you say but "fend cut, Phippe,"
Lord! how the peat will turn and skip.
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still yet yet yet.

Her feathers are so fresh of hue, 
  And so well pruned every day:
She lacks no oil, I warrant you,
  To trim her tail both trick and gay.
And though her mouth be somewhat wide, 
Her tongue is sweet and short beside. 

 ... 

The Queen of Paphos Ericine,
In heart did rose-cheeked Adone love,
He mortal was but she divine,
And oft with kisses did him move;
With great gifts still she did him woo,
But he would never yield thereto.

Then since the Queene of Love by love, 
To love was once a subject made, 
And could thereof no pleasure prove, 
By day, by night, by light or shade, 
Why being mortal should I grieve, 
Since she herself could not relieve?

She was a Goddess heavenly, 
And loved a fair faced earthly boy, 
Who did contemn her deity, 
And would not grant her hope of joy, 
For Love doth govern by a fate, 
That here plants will, and their leaves hate. 

But I, a hapless mortal wight,
To an immortal beauty sue,
No marvel then she loathes my sight,
Since Adone Venus would not woo, 
Hence, groaning sighs, mirth be my friend 
Before my life, my love shall end.

I would thou wert not fair, or I were wise, 
I would thou hadst no face, or I no eyes.
I would thou wert not wise, or I not fond, 
Or thou not free or I not so in bond.

But thou art fair and I cannot be wise.
Thy sun-like face hath blinded both mine eyes.
Thou canst not but be wise, nor I but fond, 
Not thou but free, nor I but still in bond. 

Yet am I wise to think that thou art fair,
Mine eyes their pureness in thy face repair.
Nor am I fond that do thy wisdom see,
Nor yet in bond because that thou art free. 

Then in thy beauty only make me wise, 
And in thy face, the grace, guide both mine eyes, 
And in thy wisdom only see me fond, 
And in thy freedom keep me still in bond, 

So shalt thou still be fair, and I be wise, 
Thy face shines still upon my clearèd eyes, 
Thy wisdom only see how I am fond,
Thy freedom only keep me still in bond. 

So would I thou were fair, and I were wise.
So would I thou hadst thy face, and I mine eyes.
So would I thou wert wise, and I were fond, 
And thou were free and I were still in bond. 

Unto a fly transformed from human kind,
   Methought I ranged on a sunshine day, 
When, for to ease my sad afflicted mind, 
   Upon my mistress’ robe I ‘gan to play.
At length I mounted up at her dainty breast 
From whence I sought my solace and my rest.

Yet ,not content with these aspiring toys, 
   Changing my seat into her curlèd hair, 
By seeking to increase my new-found joys,
   I turned my sweet applause to sudden fear,
For, chancing on her eyes of flame and fire, 
I burnt my wings whereby I did aspire. 

Thus falling to the ground in my decay, 
   With mournful buzzings craving her relief, 
Methought she mourned with ruth my heavy lay,
  And crushed me with her foot to end my grief, 
And said; Lo, where the silly wretch doth lie,
Whose end was such because he flew so high. 

What thing is love? I prithee tell.
It is a prick, it is a sting,
It is a pretty, pretty thing;
It is a fire, it is a coal,
Whose flame creeps in at every hole;
And as my wits can best devise,
Love's dwelling lies in ladies' eyes.

Whither runeth my sweethart
Stay and take me with thee,
Merily ile play ma part,
Stay and thou shalt see me,
O have I ketcht thee, hay ding a ding a ding
This ketching is a prety thing.

 ... 

 ... 

Tarrie are you gone againe
What no longer liking,
I will ketch thee once-againe,
Stay while I am rising,
Do you tarry then prety little one I thought
I should please thee ere we did part.

Surcharged with discontent, 
To Sylvane's bower I went 
To ease my heavy grief-opposed heart, 
And try what comfort winged creatures,
Could yield unto my inward troubled smart 
By modulating their delightful measures 
To my ears pleasing ever.
Of strains so sweet, sweet birds deprive us never.

 ... 

 ... 

The thrush did pipe full clear 
And eke with very merry cheer.
The linnet lifted up her pleasant voice 
The goldfinch chirped and the pie did chatter 
The blackbird whistled and bid me rejoice 
The stock dove murmured with a solemn flat,
The little daw ka-ka, ka-ka he cried
The hic-quail he beside
Tickled his part in a parti-coloured coat.
The jay did blow his how boy gallantly
The wren did treble many a pretty note 
The woodpecker did hammer melody. 
The kite tiw whiw full oft
Cried soaring up aloft 
And down again returned presently.
To whom the herald of cornutos all 
Sung cuckoo ever, whilst poor Margery
Cried: Who did ring night's 'larum bell withal?
All did do well. O might I hear them ever. 
Of strains so sweet, sweet birds deprive us never.

 ... 

Then Hesperus on high brought cloudy night in sky;
When lo, the thicket-keeping company
Of feathered singers left their madrigals, 
Sonnets and elegies, and presently 
Shut them within their mossy severals. 
And I came home and vowed to love them ever. 
Of strains so sweet, sweet birds deprive us never.