The haire of your head shyneth as the pure gold,
Your eyes as glasse, and right amiable;

Your smylyng countenance, so lovely to behold;
To us all is moste pleasant and delectable;
Of your commendations who can be wearie?
Hussa, my Mistresse Mary, I pray you be merie.

Your lyps are rudde as the reddy rose,

Your teeth as white as ever was the whales bone;
So cleare, so swete, so fayre, so good, so freshe, so gay;
In all Jurie truely at this day there is none.

With a lusty voyce sing we dery dery.

Hussa, Mistresse Mary, I pray you be merie.

From the Interlude of the Life and Repentaunce of Maria Magdalene, by Lewis Wager. 1567.

O lustie lovesome lamp of licht,
Your bonynes, your bewtie bricht,
Your staitly stature trym and ticht,
With gesture grave and gude,
Your countenance, your colour clei.
Your laughing lips, your smyling cheir,
Your properties doss all appeir
My senses to illude.

When I your bewtie doe behold,
I must unto your fairnes fold;
I dow not flie, howbeit I wold,
But bound I must be yours.

For

For you, sweit hart, I wold forsaik.....
The Empryce for to be my maik;
Therefore, dear dove some pitie take,

And save me from the showres.

Dame na ill of my age my dow,
Ile play the yonkeris part to yow,
First try the trueth, then may ye trow,
If I minde to desave.

For gold nor geir ye sall not want,

Sweit hart with me theeres be no scant,

Therefore some grace unto me grant,
For courtesie I crave.

From a verie excellent and delectable Treatise intitulit Philotus. Edinburgh. 1612.

SONG.

Weepe, weepe, ye wod-men waile,
Your hands with sorrow wring,
Your master Robin Hood lies deade,
Therefore sigh as you sing.

Here lies his primer and his beades,
His bent bowe, and his arrowes keene,

His good sworde, and his holy crosse.
Now cast on flowers fresh and greene.

And as they fall, shed teares and say,
Wella, wella day, wella, wella day,

Thus cast yee flowers, and sing,
And on to Wakefild take your way.

D 2

From

From the Death of Robert, Earle of Hunt

ington. 1601.

BRIDAL SONG.

Comforts lasting, loves increasing,
Like soft houres never ceasing,
Plenties pleasure, peace complying,
Without jarres or tongues envying,'
Hearts by holy union wedded,
More than theirs by custome bedded,
Fruitful issues, life so graced,
Not by age to be defaced,

Budding as the year ensueth,
Every spring another youth,
All that thought can add beside,

Crowne this bridegroome and this bride

From the Broken Heart. A Tragedy; by John Ford.

1633.

SONG

Now what is love I will thee tell,
It is the fountain and the well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;

It is perhaps the passing bell,

That rings all into heaven or hell;

And this is love, and this is love, as I heare tell.

Now what is love I will you show,

A thing that creeps and cannot goe,

A thing

A thing for me and a thing for moe;
And he that proves shall find it so :

And this is love, and this is love, sweet friend I tro.

From the Rape of Lucrece; a True Roman Tragedy, by Thomas Heywood,

1630.

SONG.

Why since we souldiers cannot prove,
And griefe it is to us therefore;

Let every man get him a love,
To trim her well, and fight no more.

That we may taste of lovers blisse,
Be mery and blith, embrace and kisse,
That ladies may say, some more of this,
That ladies may say, some more of this.

Since Court and Cittie both grow proud,
And safely you delight to heare,
Wee in the country will us shroud,
Who lives to please both eye and eare.

The nightingale sings jug, jug, jug,
The little lamb leaps after his dug,

And the prety milk-maids the looke so snng,
And the prety milk-maids the looke so snug,

From the same.

D 3

SONG.

SONG,

O cruel Love, on thee I lay

My curse, which shall strike blind the day;
Never may sleepe with velvet hand,
Charme these eyes with sacred wand.

Thy jaylours shall be hopes and feares,
Thy prison mates, grones, sighes and teares,
Thy play to weare out weary times,
Phantastike passions, vows and rimes.

Thy bread bee frownes, thy drink be gall,
Such as when you Phao call.

Thy sleepe fond dreames, thy dreames long care,
Hope, like thy foole at thy beds head,

Mockes thee till madnesse strike thee dead.
As Phao thou dost mee with thy proud eyes,
In thee poore Sapho lives, for thee she dies.

From Lily's Sapho and Phao. 1584.

SONG BY VULCAN.

My shag-haire Cyclops, come, lets ply
Our Lemnian hammers lustily.

By my wifes sparrowes

I sweare these arrowes,

Shall singing fly

Through many a wantons eye,

These headed are with golden blisses,
These silver ones featherd with kisses.

But