The Golden Treasury. Various

That she in peace may wake and pity me.

      T. Campion

LIII

      THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS

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      While that the sun with his beams hot

       Scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,

       Philon the shepherd, late forgot,

       Sitting beside a crystal fountain,

       In shadow of a green oak tree

       Upon his pipe this song play'd he:

       Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,

       Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;

       Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

      So long as I was in your sight

       I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;

       And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd

       Burning in flames beyond all measure:

       —Three days endured your love to me,

       And it was lost in other three!

       Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,

       Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;

       Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

      Another Shepherd you did see

       To whom your heart was soon enchainéd;

       Full soon your love was leapt from me,

       Full soon my place he had obtainéd.

       Soon came a third, your love to win,

       And we were out and he was in.

       Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,

       Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;

       Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

      

      Sure you have made me passing glad

       That you your mind so soon removéd,

       Before that I the leisure had

       To choose you for my best belovéd:

       For all your love was past and done

       Two days before it was begun:—

       Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,

       Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;

       Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

      Anon.

LIV

      ADVICE TO A LOVER

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      The sea hath many thousand sands,

       The sun hath motes as many;

       The sky is full of stars, and Love

       As full of woes as any:

       Believe me, that do know the elf,

       And make no trial by thyself!

      It is in truth a pretty toy

       For babes to play withal:—

       But O! the honeys of our youth

       Are oft our age's gall!

       Self-proof in time will make thee know

       He was a prophet told thee so;

      A prophet that, Cassandra-like,

       Tells truth without belief;

       For headstrong Youth will run his race,

       Although his goal be grief:—

       Love's Martyr, when his heat is past,

       Proves Care's Confessor at the last.

      Anon.

LV

      A RENUNCIATION

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      Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,

       For all those rosy ornaments in thee,—

       Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,

       Nor fair, nor sweet—unless thou pity me!

       I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove

       That beauty is no beauty without love.

      —Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure

       My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine:

       Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,

       I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine:

       —Now show it, if thou be a woman right—

       Embrace and kiss and love me in despite!

      T. Campion

LVI

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      Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

       Thou art not so unkind

       As man's ingratitude;

       Thy tooth is not so keen

       Because thou art not seen,

       Although thy breath be rude.

       Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:

       Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

       Then, heigh ho! the holly!

       This life is most jolly.

      Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

       Thou dost not bite so nigh

       As benefits forgot:

       Though thou the waters warp,

       Thy sting is not so sharp

       As friend remember'd not.

       Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:

       Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

       Then, heigh ho! the holly!

       This life is most jolly.

      W. Shakespeare

LVII

      A SWEET LULLABY

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      Come little babe, come silly soul,

       Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,

       Born as I doubt to all our dole,

       And to thy self unhappy chief:

       Sing Lullaby and lap it warm,

       Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

      Thou little think'st and less dost know,

       The cause of this thy mother's moan,

       Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,

       And I myself am all alone:

       Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?

       And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.

      Come