John Wilbye: Verses about Love

And though my love abounding,
Did make me fall a sounding,
Yet am I well contented,
Still so to be tormented,
And death can never fear me,
As long as you are near me.

Thus love commands, that I in vain complain me,
And sorrow will that she shall still disdain me:
Yet did I hope, which hope my life prolonged,
To hear her say, alas! His love was wronged.

Away, thou shalt not love me.
So shall my love seem greater
And I shall love the better.
Shall it be so? what say you?
Why speak you not I pray you?
Nay then I know you love me
That so you may disprove me.

I love, alas! yet am not loved,
For cruel she to pity is not moved.
My constant love with scorn she ill rewardeth,
Only my sighs a little she regardeth:
Yet more and more the quenchless fire increaseth,
Which, to my greater torment, never ceaseth.

Fly, Love, aloft to heav'n and look out Fortune,
Then sweetly, sweetly, sweetly her importune,
That I from my Calisto best beloved
As you and she set down be never moved.
And, Love, to Carimel see you commend me,
Fortune for his sweet sake may chance befriend me.

So light is love, in matchless beauty shining,
When she revisits Cypris' hallow'd bowers,
Two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining,
Can draw her chariot 'midst the Paphian flowers.
Lightness to love, how ill it fitteth,
So heavy on my heart, O! on my heart he sitteth.

As fair as morn, as fresh as May,
a pretty grace in saying nay,
Smil'st thou sweetheart?
then sing and say, Ta na na no,
But O! that love enchanting eye,
Lo, here my doubtful doom I try,
Tell me my sweet, live I or die?
She smiles, fa la la la,
Ah, she frowns, Ay me, I die.

Ay me; can every rumour
Thus start my lady's humour?
Name ye some gallant to her
Why straight forsooth I woo her.
Then burst she forth in passion:
You men love but for fashion.
Yet sure I am that no man
Ever so loved woman.
Yet, alas, Love, be wary
For women be contrary.

Hard destinies are love and beauty parted,
Fair Daphne so disdainful!
Cupid, thy shafts are too unjustly darted;
Fond love, thy wounds are painful:
But sith my lovely jewel
Is prov’d so coy and cruel,
I’ll live and frolic in her beauty’s treasure,
But languish, faint, and die in her displeasure

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face;
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart:
For those may fail or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why;
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.

Sweet love, if thou wilt gain a monarch’s glory,
Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry,
Out of thy golden quiver,
Take thou the strongest arrow,
That will, thro’ bone and marrow,
And me and thee of grief and fear deliver;
But come behind, for if she look upon thee,
Alas! poor love, then thou art woebegone thee.