SIR ROBERT AYTON.

1570-1638.

ON LOVE.

THERE is no worldly pleasure here below,
Which by experience doth not folly prove;
But amongst all the follies that I know,

The sweetest folly in the world is love:
But not that passion which, with fools' consent,
Above the reason bears imperious sway,
Making their life-time a perpetual Lent,

As if a man were born to fast and pray. No, that is not the humour I approve,

As either yielding pleasure, or promotion; I like a mild and lukewarm zeal in love,

Although I do not like it in devotion: For it has no coherence with my creed,

To think that lovers die, as they pretend: If all that say they die, had died indeed,

Sure long ere now the world had had an end. Besides, we need not love but if we please,

No destiny can force men's disposition;

And how can any die of that disease,

Whereof himself may be his own physician? But some seem so distracted of their wit,

That I would think it but a venial sin To take some of those innocents that sit

In Bedlam out, and put some lovers in.

Yet some men, rather than incur the slander
Of true apostates, will false martyrs prove:
But I am neither Iphis, nor Leander,

I'll neither drown, nor hang myself for love. Methinks a wise man's actions should be such

As always yields to reason's best advice; Now for to love too little, or too much,

Are both extremes, and all extremes are vice.

Yet have I been a lover by report,

Yea, I have died for love, as others do; But, praised be God, it was in such a sort, That I revived within an hour or two. Thus have I lived, thus have I loved, till now, And find no reason to repent me yet;

And whosoever otherways will do,

His courage is as little as his wit.

ON A WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

I loved thee once, I'll love no more,
Thine be the grief, as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?

He that can love, unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain.
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away.

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,
If thou had still continued mine;
Yea, if thou had remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom did recal,
That if thou might elsewhere enthral;

And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquered thee,
And changed the object of thy will,

It had been lethargy in me,

No constancy to love thee still :
Yea, it had been a sin to go

And prostitute affection so;

Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,

Thy choice of his good fortune boast;

I'll neither grieve, nor yet rejoice,
To see him gain what I have lost:
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging at a beggar's door.

SONG.

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,

And I might have gone near to love thee;

Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak had power to move thee:

But I can let thee now alone,

As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find

Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind,
That kisses everything it meets.
And since thou can with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none.

The morning rose, that untouched stands,

Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells!

But plucked and strained through ruder hands,
Her sweets no longer with her dwells;

But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,

When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside;

And I will sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love for more than one,
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

SONG.

What means this strangeness now of late,
Since time must truth approve?

This distance may consist with state,
It cannot stand with love.

'Tis either cunning or distrust,
That may such ways allow:
The first is base, the last unjust,
Let neither blemish you.

For if you mean to draw me on,
There needs not half this art:
And if you mean to have me gone,
You over-act your part.

If kindness cross your wished content,
Dismiss me with a frown;

I'll give you all the love that's spent,
The rest shall be my own.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

15--16-.

["Pleasant Dalogues and Dramas." 1607.]

SONG.

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 both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin red-breast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;

And from each bill 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-