Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age. Various

they think no ill,” p. 61) in praise of a contented countryman and his good wife. A sweeter example of an old pastoral lyric could nowhere be found, not even in the pages of Nicholas Breton. The “Third and Fourth Books of Airs” are also undated, but they were probably published in 1613. In this collection, where all is good, my favourite is “Now winter nights enlarge” (p. 90). Others may prefer the melodious serenade, worthy even of Shelley, “Shall I come, sweet love, to thee” (p. 100). But there is one poem of Campion (printed in the collection of 1601) which, for strange richness of romantic beauty, could hardly be matched outside the sonnets of Shakespeare:—

      “When thou must home to shades of underground,

       And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,

       The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,

       White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,

       To hear the stories of thy finish’d love

       From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move:

      Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,

       Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,

       Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,

       And all these triumphs for thy beauty sake:

       When thou hast told these honours done to thee,

       Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!”

      The mention of “White Iope” was suggested by a passage of Propertius:—

       “Sunt apud infernos tot millia formosarum;

       Pulchra sit, in superis, si licet, una locis.

Vobiscum[2] est Iope, vobiscum candida Tyro,” &c.

      Campion was steeped in classical feeling: his rendering of Catullus’ “Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus” (p. 80) is, so far as it goes, delightful. It is time that Campion should again take his rightful place among the lyric poets of England. In his own day his fame stood high. Camden did not hesitate to couple his name with the names of Spenser and Sidney; but modern critics have persistently neglected him. The present anthology contains a large number of his best poems; and I venture to hope that my attempt to recall attention to the claims of this true poet will not be fruitless.

      There is much excellent verse hidden away in the Song-books of Robert Jones, a famous performer on the lute. Between 1601 and 1611 Jones issued six musical works. Two of these—“The First Set of Madrigals,” 1607, and “The Muses’ Garden for Delight,” 1611—I have unfortunately not been able to see, as I have not yet succeeded in discovering their present resting-place. Of “Ultimum Vale, or the Third Book of Airs” [1608], only one copy is known. It formerly belonged to Rimbault, and is now preserved in the library of the Royal College of Music. The other publications of Jones are of the highest rarity. By turns the songs are grave and gay. On one page is the warning to Love—

      “Little boy, pretty knave, hence, I beseech you!

       For if you hit me, knave, in faith I’ll breech you.” (p. 72.)

      On another we read “Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly,” (p. 73); but the vain hopes, seeking to woo the sun’s fair light, were scorched with fire and drown’d in woe,

      “And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,

       For Love did know that their desires were true;

       Though Fate frownèd.

       And now drownèd

       They in sorrow dwell,

       It was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell.”

      The last line is superb.

      I have drawn freely from the madrigals of Weelkes, Morley, Farmer, Wilbye and others. Thomas Ford’s “Music of Sundry Kinds,” 1607, has yielded some very choice verse; and Francis Pilkington’s collections have not been consulted in vain. From John Attye’s “First Book of Airs,” 1622, I have selected one song, (p. 94), only one—warm and tender and delicious. Some pleasant verses have been drawn from the rare song-books of William Corkine; and Thomas Vautor’s “Songs of Divers Airs and Natures,” 1619, have supplied some quaint snatches, notably the address to the owl, (p. 116) “Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight.” I have purposely refrained from giving many humorous ditties. Had I been otherwise minded there was plenty of material to my hand in the rollicking rounds and catches of Ravenscroft’s admirable collections.

      As I have no technical knowledge of the subject, it would be impertinent for me to attempt to estimate the merits of the music contained in these old song-books; but I venture with all confidence to commend the poetry to the reader’s attention. There is one poem which I have deliberately kept back. It occurs in “The First Part of Airs, French, Polish, and others together, some in tableture and some in prick-song,” 1605. The composer was a certain Captain Tobias Hume, but who the author of the poem was I know not. Here is the first stanza:—

      “Fain would I change that note

       To which fond love hath charm’d me,

       Long long to sing by rote,

       Fancying that that harm’d me:

       Yet when this thought doth come,

       ‘Love is the perfect sum

       Of all delight,’

       I have no other choice

       Either for pen or voice

       To sing or write.”

       The other stanza shall occupy the place of honour in the front of my Anthology; for among all the Elizabethan song-books I have found no lines of more faultless beauty, of happier cadence or sweeter simplicity, no lines that more justly deserve to be treasured in the memory while memory lasts.

      Footnotes

      [1] In his address To The Reader prefixed to the “Fourth Book of Airs” he writes:—“Some words are in these books which have been clothed in music by others, and I am content they then served their turn: yet give me leave to make use of mine own.” Again, in the address To the Reader prefixed to the “Third Book of Airs:”—“In these English airs I have chiefly aimed to couple my words and notes lovingly together; which will be much for him to do that hath not power over both.”

[2] Some editions read “Vobiscum Antiope.”

      IN LAVDEM AMORIS.

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      O LOVE, THEY WRONG THEE MVCH

       THAT SAY THY SWEET IS BITTER,

       WHEN THY RICH FRVIT IS SVCH

       AS NOTHING CAN BE SWEETER.

       FAIR HOVSE OF JOY AND BLISS,

       WHERE TRVEST PLEASVRE IS,

       I DO ADORE THEE;

       I KNOW THEE WHAT THOV ART,

       I SERVE THEE WITH MY HEART,

       AND FALL BEFORE THEE.

      Captain Hume’s First Part of Airs, 1605.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

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