Five Elizabethan Songs

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A Turtle sate vpon a leauelesse tree,
Mourning her absent pheare,
With sad and sorrie cheare.
About her wondring stood,
The Cittizens of vvood.
And whilst her plumes she rents,
And for her Loue laments:
The stately trees complaine them,
The birds with sorrow paine them.
Each one that dooth her view,
Her paines and sorrowes rue.
But were the sorrowes knowne,
That me hath ouer-throwne:
Oh how would Phæbe sigh, if she did looke on mee?

The loue-sicke Polipheme that could not see,
Who on the barren shoare,
His fortunes did deplore:
And melteth all in mone,
For Galatea gone,
And with his cries
Afflicts both earth and skies,
And to his woe betooke,
Dooth breake both pipe and hooke.
For whom complaines the morne,
For whom the Sea-Nimphs mourne.
Alas his paine is nought,
For were my woe but thought:
Oh how would Phæbe sigh, if she did looke on me?

Beyond compare my paine,
yet glad am I:
If gentle Phæbe daine,
to see her Montan die.

A proper Song, Intituled: Fain wold I haue
a pretie thing to give vnto my Ladie.
To the tune of lustie Gallant.

Fain would I haue a pretie thing,
to giue vnto my Ladie:
I name no thing, nor I meane no thing,
But as pretie a thing as may bee.

Twentie iorneyes would I make,
and twentie waies would hie me,
To make aduenture for her sake,
to set some matter by me:
But I would faine haue a pretie thing, &c,
I name nothing, nor I meane nothing, &c.

Some do long for pretie knackes,
and some for straunge deuices:
God send me that my Ladie lackes,
I care not what the price is, thus faine, &c

Some goe here, and some go there,
wheare gases be not geason:
And I goe gaping euery where,
but still come out of season. Yet faine, &c,

I walke the towne, and tread the streete,
in euery corner seeking:
The pretie thinge I cannot meete,
thats for my Ladies liking. Faine, &c.

The Mercers pull me going by,
the Silkie wiues say, what lacke ye?
The thing you haue not, then say I.
ye foolish fooles, go packe ye. But fain &c.

It is not all the Silke in Cheape,
nor all the golden treasure:
Nor twentie Bushels on a heape,
can do my Ladie pleasure. But faine, &c.

The Grauers of the golden showes,
with Iuelles do beset me.
The Shemsters in the shoppes that sowes,
they do nothing but let me: But faine, &c.

But were it in the wit of man,
but any meanes to make it,
I could for Money buy it than,
and say, faire Lady, take it. Thus, faine, &c.

O Lady, what a lucke is this:
that my good willing misseth:
To finde what pretie thing it is,
that my good Lady wisheth.
Thus fain wold I haue had this preti thing
to giue vnto my Ladie:
I said no harme, nor I ment no harme,
but as pretie a thing as may be.

Twixt death and doubtfulnesse,
Twixt paine and pensiuenesse,
Twixt Hell and heauynesse,
Rests all my carefulnesse.

O vaine securitie,
That will not libertie,
Fye on that fantasie,
That brings captiuitie.

My lyfe is lothsomnesse,
My pleasure pastimelesse,
My ende your doubtfulnesse,
If you be mercylesse.

In doubt is lealosie,
Hope helpeth miserie,
Most women commonly,
Haue aunswers readily.

Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song.
Love that is too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste.
Still, I would not have thee cold,
Not too backward, nor too bold;
Love that lasteth till tis old
Fadeth not in haste.
 Love me little, love me long,
 Is the burden of my song. 

If thou lovest me too much,
It will not prove as true as touch;
Love me little, more than such,
For I fear the end.
I am with little well content,
And a little from thee sent
Is enough, with true intent
To be steadfast friend.
 Love me little, love me long,
 Is the burden of my song. 

Say thou lov'st me while thou live;
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive
Whiles that life endures.
Nay, and after death, in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth,
As now, when in my May of youth;
This my love assures.
 Love me little, love me long,
 Is the burden of my song. 

Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through life persever;
Give me that, with true endeavor
I will it restore.
A suit of durance let it be,
For all weathers that for me,
For the land or for the sea,
Lasting evermore.
 Love me little, love me long,
 Is the burden of my song. 

Winter's cold, or summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests on it beat,
It can never know defeat,
Never can rebel.
Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love, I tell thee plain,
Though must give, or woo in vain;
So to thee, farewell!
 Love me little, love me long,
 Is the burden of my song.