His helmet, now, shall make a hive for bees,
And lover's Sonnets turn to holy Psalms;
A man-at-arms must, now, serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age's alms:

But though from Court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits, in homely cell,
H'll teach his swains this Carol for a Song;
Blest be the hearts that wish my Sovereign well!
Curst be the soul that thinks her any wrong!

Goddess! Allow this aged man his right!
To be your Beadsman now; that was your Knight.

WAKE, sweet love! Thou art returned,
My heart, which long in absence mourned,
Lives now in perfect joy.

Only herself hath seemèd fair;

She only could I love;

She only drave me to despair,

When she unkind did prove.

Let love which never, absent, dies;
Now live for ever in her eyes,
Whence came my first annoy:
Despair did make me wish to die

That I my joys might end,
She only, which did make me fly,
My state may now amend.

If she esteem thee now ought worth;
She will not grieve thy love henceforth,

Which so despair hath proved.
Despair hath provèd now in me
That love will not unconstant be,
Though long in vain I loved.

If she, at last, reward thy love
And all thy harms repair,
Thy happiness will sweeter prove,
Raised up from deep despair.
And if that now thou welcome be,

When thou with her doth meet;
She all this while, but played with thee,
To make thy joys more sweet.

OME, heavy Sleep, the Image of true Death,
And close up these my weary weeping eyes,
Whose spring of tears doth stop my vital breath,
And tears my heart with sorrow's sigh-swollen cries.
Come, and possess my tired thoughts! worn soul!
That living dies, till thou on me bestoule!

Come, Shadow of my End, and Shape of Rest,
Allied to Death, Child to this black-fast Night!
Come thou, and charm these rebels in my breast,
Whose waking fancies doth my mind affright.
O come, sweet Sleep! Come, or I die for ever!
Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never!

WAY with these self-loving lads,
Whom CUPID's arrow never glads;
Away poor souls that sigh and weep,
In love of them that lie and sleep,
For CUPID is a meadow god,

And forceth none to kiss the rod.

God CUPID's shaft, like Destiny,
Doth either good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his feet doth go.

What fools are they, that have not known
That LOVE likes no laws, but his own!

100

DOWLAND'S FIRST BOOK OF SONGS OR AIRS.

My songs, they be CYNTHIA'S praise:
I wear her rings on holidays.

On every tree, I write her name,
And every day I read the same:

Where HONOUR, CUPID's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.

If CYNTHIA crave her ring of me,
I'll blot her name out of the tree,
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then "Well fare nothing!" once a year:
For many run, but one must win.
Fools only, hedge the cuckoo in!

The worth that worthiness should move
Is love; which is the bow of Love:
And love as well the For'ster can,
As can the mighty Nobleman.

Sweet saint, 'tis true, you worthy be,

Yet, without love, nought worth to me.

JOHN DOWLAND, Bachelor of Music, &c., and Lutenist to CHRISTIAN IV., King of Denmark.

THE SECOND BOOK OF SONGS OR AIRS.

1600.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, THE LADY LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

XCELLENT Lady! I send unto your Ladyship from the Court of a foreign Prince, this Volume of my Second Labours, as to the worthiest Patronness of Music; which is the noblest of all sciences. For the whole frame of Nature is nothing but Harmony, as well in souls, as [in] bodies. And because I am now removed from your sight, I will speak boldly; that your Ladyship shall be unthankful to Nature herself, if you do not love and defend that Art, by which she hath given you so well

tuned a mind!

Your Ladyship hath in yourself, an excellent agreement of many virtues; of which, though I admire all, yet I am bound by my profession, to give especial honour to your knowledge of Music: which, in the judgement of ancient times, was so proper an excellency in women, that the Muses took their name from it; and yet so rare, that the world durst imagine but Nine of them.

I most humbly beseech your Ladyship to receive this work into your favour; and the rather, because it cometh far, to beg it of you. From Elsinore in Denmark, the first of June, 1600.

Your Ladyship's, in all humble devotion,

JOHN DOWLAND.

To the Right Noble and Virtuous Lady LUCY, Countess of BEDFORD,

GEORGE]. EASTLAND.

To J. DOWLAND'S Lute.

L UTE! Arise, and charm the air,
Until a thousand forms she bear!
Conjure them all, that they repair
Into the circles of her ear;

E ver to dwell in concord there!

By this, thy tunes may have access
E ven to her spirit, whose flowing treasure
Doth sweetest harmony express;
Filling all ears and hearts with pleasure :
On earth, observing heavenly measure.
Right well can she judge and defend them!
Doubt not of that, for she can mend them!