Excerpt: ... this is love, as I hear say. Now what is love, I pray thee feign? It is a sunshine mixed with rain, It is a gentle pleasing pain, A flower that dies and springs again, It is a No that would full fain: And this is love as I hear sain. Yet what is love, I pray thee say? It is a pretty shady way As well found out by night as day, It is a thing will soon decay; Then take the vantage whilst you may: And this is love, as I hear say. Pg 90 Now what is love, I pray thee show? A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize ...
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Excerpt: ... this is love, as I hear say. Now what is love, I pray thee feign? It is a sunshine mixed with rain, It is a gentle pleasing pain, A flower that dies and springs again, It is a No that would full fain: And this is love as I hear sain. Yet what is love, I pray thee say? It is a pretty shady way As well found out by night as day, It is a thing will soon decay; Then take the vantage whilst you may: And this is love, as I hear say. Pg 90 Now what is love, I pray thee show? A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for mo, And he that proves shall find it so: And this is love, as I well know. 11 Saint's-bell; the little bell that called to prayers. From Thomas Campion 's Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613). Now winter nights enlarge The number of their hours, And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze, And cups o'erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love, While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep's leaden spells remove. This time doth well dispense With lovers' long discourse; Much, speech hath some defence Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well; Some measures comely tread, Pg 91 Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. The summer hath his joys And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights. From John Ward 's First Set of English Madrigals, 1613. O say, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries, So lovely-ripe, by my rude lips be tasted? Shall I not pluck (sweet, say not nay) those cherries? O let them not with summer's heat be blasted. Nature, thou know'st, bestow'd them free on thee; Then be thou kind
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Add this copy of Lyrics From the Song-Books of the Elizabethan Age (His to cart. $19.95, good condition, Sold by Books From California rated 4.0 out of 5 stars, ships from Simi Valley, CA, UNITED STATES, published 1971 by AMS Press.
