MADRIGAL.

[1588.]

SLEEP, fleep, mine only jewel,
Much more thou dost delight me,

Than my beloved, too cruel,

That hid her face to spite me.

Thou bring her home full nigh me,
While he so fast did fly me.

By thy means I behold those eyes so fhining,
Long time absented, that now look appeased;
Thus is my grief declining:

Thou in my dreams doft make defire well pleased.
Sleep, if thou be like death, as thou art feigned,
A happy life by such a death were gained.

MUSICA TRANSALPINA,

MADRIGAL.

[1588.]

LIKE as from heaven the dew full softly showering,
Doth fill and so refresh both fields and closes,

Filling the parched flowers with sap and savour; So while fhe bathed the violets and roses,

Upon her lovely cheeks so freshly flowering,

The Spring renewed his force with her sweet favour. MUSICA TRANSALPINA.

THE HERDSMAN'S HAPPY LIFE.

[1588.]

WHAT pleasure have great princes,
More dainty to their choice,
Then herdsmen wild, who, careless,
In quiet life rejoice,

And fortune's fate not fearing,

Sing sweet in summer morning?

Their dealings, plain and rightful,

Are void of all deceit;
They never know how spiteful
It is to kneel and wait,

On favourite presumptuous,
Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.

All day their flocks each tendeth,

At night they take their rest,

More quiet than who sendeth
His hip into the East,
Where gold and pearl are plenty,

But getting very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading

They seem it not a straw;
They think that honeft meaning
Is of itself a law;

Where conscience judgeth plainly,
They spend no money vainly

O happy who thus liveth!
Not caring much for gold;
With clothing which sufficeth

To keep him from the cold:
Though poor and plain his diet,
Yet merry it is, and quiet.

BYRD'S SONGS.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

[1590.]

I.

LOVE in my bosom like a bee

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amidst my tender breast;

My kies are his daily feaft,

And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?

II.

And if I fleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The live-long night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the ftring;
He mufic plays if I do fing;
He lends me every lovely thing:
Yet cruel he my heart doth fting.
Whift, wanton, ftill ye!

III.

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence;

And bind you when

For your offence.

you long to play,

I'll but mine eyes to keep you in,

I'll make you fast it for your fin,

I'll count your power not worth a pin;
Alas, what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?

IV.

What if I beat the wanton boy,
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then fit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be:
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee.
O Cupid! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee!

THOMAS LODGE.

THE SILENT LOVER.

[1590?]

I.

PASSIONS are likened beft to floods and ftreams; The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb: So, when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, in words discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

II.

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart,

That sues for no compassion:

III.

Since, if my plaints serve not to approve

The conqueft of thy beauty,

It comes not from defect of love,
But from excess of duty:

IV.

For, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all defire, but none deserve,
A place in her affection,