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RICHARD BARNFIELD

[1574-1627]

THE NIGHTINGALE

As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu, by and by:

That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.

-Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;

King Pandion, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:

All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee
None alive will pity me.

THOMAS CAMPION
[1567 (?)-1620]

CHERRY-RIPE

THERE is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies blow;

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A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:

There cherries grow which none may buy
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

FOLLOW YOUR Saint

FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet!
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,

And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:
But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,

Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return again!

All that I sung still to her praise did tend;

Still she was first, still she my songs did end;

Yet she my love and music both doth fly,

The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy:

Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!

It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.

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WHEN TO HER LUTE CORINNA SINGS

WHEN to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,

And doth in highest notes appear,
As any challenged echo clear:

But when she doth of mourning speak,
E'en with her sighs, the strings do break,
And as
her lute doth live or die,
Led by her passion, so must I;
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring,
But if she doth of sorrow speak,

E'en from my heart the strings do break.

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FOLLOW THY FAIR SUN

FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow,
Though thou be black as night,
And she made all of light;

Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!
Though here thou livest disgraced,

And she in heaven is placed;

Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!

Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth!
That so have scorched thee;

As thou still black must be,

Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth!

Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!
There comes a luckless night

That will dim all her light;

And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

Follow still, since so thy Fates ordained!
The sun must have his shade,

Till both at once do fade;

The sun still proved, the shadow still disdainèd!

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TURN ALL THY THOUGHTS TO EYES

TURN all thy thoughts to eyes,
Turn all thy hairs to ears,
Change all thy friends to spies
And all thy joys to fears:
True love will yet be free
In spite of jealousy.

Turn darkness into day,
Conjectures into truth,

Believe what th' envious say,

Let age interpret youth:
True love will yet be free
In spite of jealousy.

Wrest every word and look,
Rack every hidden thought,
Or fish with golden hook;
True love cannot be caught:
For that will still be free
In spite of jealousy.

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INTEGER VITAE

THE man of life upright,
Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity;

The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrow discontent;

That man needs neither towers

Nor armour for defence,

Nor secret vaults to fly

From thunder's violence:

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He only can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep

And terrors of the skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn

And quiet pilgrimage.

ROBERT DEVEREUX, EARL OF ESSEX

[1566-1601]

A PASSION OF MY LORD OF ESSEX

HAPPY were he could finish forth his fate
In some unhaunted desert, most obscure
From all societies, from love and hate

Of worldly folk; then might he sleep secure;
Then wake again, and ever give God praise,

Content with hips and haws and bramble-berry; In contemplation spending all his days,

And change of holy thoughts to make him merry; Where, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush, Where harmless Robin dwells with gentle thrush.

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SIR HENRY WOTTON

[1568-1639]

ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light,