Ben Jonson

Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

The Lover's Ideal

IF I freely may discover

What would please me in my lover, I would have her fair and witty, Savouring more of court than city; A little proud, but full of pity; Light and humorous in her toying; Oft building hopes, and soon destroying ; Long, but sweet in the enjoying; Neither too easy nor too hard, All extremes I would have barred.

She should be allowed her passions,
So they were but used as fashions;
Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish, and then swooning,
Every fit with change still crowning.
Purely jealous I would have her,

Then only constant when I crave her;

'Tis a virtue should not save her.

Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Nor her peevishness annoy me.

Thomas Heywood

is said to have been concerned in the authorship of two hundred and twenty plays, of which, however, only twenty-three have come down to us. He was a Lincolnshire man, and was for a period at Cambridge. He was born about 1575, and died about 1649.

Go, pretty Birds

YE little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,

And see how Phillis sweetly walks,
Within her garden-alleys;

Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;

Ah, me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tell her, through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden.

Go, pretty birds, and tell her so;

See that your notes strain not too low,

G

Thomas beywood

For still, methinks, I see her frown.
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tune your voices' harmony,
And sing, I am her lover;

Strain loud and sweet, that every note
With sweet content may move her.
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice;
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown.
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Oh, fly! make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber.

Sing round about her rosy bed,

That, waking, she may wonder.

Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you;
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.

Good-Morrow

PACK, clouds! away, and welcome, day!
With night we banish sorrow :

Sweet air! blow soft; mount, lark! aloft:
To give my love good-morrow.

Wings from the wind, to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow :

Bird! prune thy wing; nightingale ! sing:
To give my Love good-morrow.

To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast!
Sing, birds! in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair Love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves! amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow.
To give my Love good-morrow,

Sing, birds! in every furrow.

Beaumont and Fletcher

Singly and jointly, Beaumont and Fletcher were the authors of fifty-two plays. Francis Beaumont was the younger (born, 1585; died, 1616?), yet he is said to have exerted the restraining influence. His close friend and fellow-worker, John Fletcher (born, 1579; died, 1625), seems to have been the commanding genius. Indeed, Fletcher's wit and fancy were inexhaustible; and besides having the reputation of an alliance with Shakespeare, he has had awarded him the lion's share of the credit attaching to the songs contained in the plays he wrote in conjunction with Beaumont.

Take, oh! take those Lips away

TAKE, oh! take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn ;
And those eyes, like break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn!
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, though sealed in vain.

Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are yet of those that April wears!
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.