LVII

A SWEET LULLABY 1

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,

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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 little wretch, ah silly heart,
Mine only joy, what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart
That may the destinies implore:

'T was I, I say, against my will,

I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile, oh thy sweet face!
Would God Himself He might thee see,
No doubt thou would'st soon purchase grace,

I know right well, for thee and me:

But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance,
Thy father home again to send,

If death do strike me with his lance,

Yet mayst thou me to him commend :

If any ask thy mother's name,

Tell how by love she purchased blame.

IO

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1 From Nicholas Breton's "Arbor of Amorous Devices," 1593-1594.

Then will his gentle heart soon yield,
I know him of a noble mind,

Although a Lion in the field,

A Lamb in town thou shalt him find:
Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,
His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.

Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,
Although in woe I seem to moan,
Thy father is no rascal lad,
A noble youth of blood and bone:

His glancing looks, if he once smile,
Right honest women may beguile.

Come, little boy, and rock asleep,
Sing lullaby and be thou still;
I that can do naught else but weep,
Will sit by thee and wail my fill:

God bless my babe, and lullaby
From this thy father's quality!

LVIII

Anon.

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,
I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,

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Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet

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Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?

Sir P. Sidney

LIX

O CRUDELIS AMOR

When thou must home to shades of underground,

And there arrived, a new admired guest,

The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
White Iopé, 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's sake:
When thou hast told these honors done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!

LX

T. Campion

SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe,
Fortune changéd made him so,
When he left his pretty boy

Last his sorrow, first his joy.

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IO

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Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;

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When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies;
Thus he grieved in every part,

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Tears of blood fell from his heart,

When he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;

When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept,

Mother cried, baby leapt;

More he crow'd, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:

He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bless,
For he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,

When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

LXI

A LAMENT

My thoughts hold mortal strife ;

I do detest my life,

And with lamenting cries

ΙΟ

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R. Greene

Peace to my soul to bring

Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize:
But he, grim grinning King,

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Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,
Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

W. Drummond

LXII

DIRGE OF LOVE

Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

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O prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet

On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown :
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there.

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W. Shakespeare

LXIII

TO HIS LUTE

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.

Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,

What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

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Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,

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But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before: