ANONYMOUS PIECES FROM ELIZABETHAN

MISCELLANIES

A CRADLE SONG

The Arbor of Amorous

COME little babe, come silly soule,
Thy fathers shame, thy mothers griefe,
Borne as I doubt to all our dole,

And to thy selfe vnhappie chiefe ;

Sing Lullabie and lap it warme,

Devices, 1597

Poore soule that thinkes no creature harme.

Thou little thinkst and lesse doost knowe,
The cause of this thy mothers moane,

Thou wantst the wit to waile her woe,

And I my selfe am all alone :

Why doost thou weepe? why doost thou waile ?

And knowest not yet what thou doost ayle.

Come, little wretch, ah silly heart,
Mine onely joy what can I more :
If there be any wrong thy smart,
That may the destinies implore :

Twas I, I say, against my will,
I wayle the time, but be thou still.

And doest thou smile oh thy sweete face,
Would God himselfe he might thee see,
No doubt thou wouldst soone purchace grace,
I know right well for thee and mee:

But come to mother babe and play,
For father false is fled away.

dole] grief, sorrow. lap] to fold, wrap up.

Sweet boy if it by fortune chance,
Thy father home againe to send,
If death do strike me with his launce,
Yet mayst thou me to him commend :
If any aske thy mothers name,

Tell how by loue she purchast blame.
Then will his gentle heart soone yeeld,
I know him of a noble minde,
Although a Lyon in the field,

A Lamb in towne thou shalt him finde :
Aske blessing babe, be not afrayde,
His sugred words hath me betrayde.
Then mayst thou ioy and be right glad,
Although in woe I seeme to moane,
Thy father is no Rascall lad,
A noble youth of blood and boane :

His glancing lookes if he once smile,
Right honest women may beguile.
Come little boy and rocke a sleepe,
Sing lullabie and be thou still,

I that can doe nought else but weepe,
Wil sit by thee and waile my fill:

God blesse my babe and lullabie,
From this thy fathers qualitie.

MADRIGAL

Davison's Poeticall Rapsodie, 1602

In praise of two.

FAUSTINA hath the fairer face,
And Phillida the better grace,
Both haue mine eye enriched.
This sings full sweetly with her voyce,
Her fingers make as sweet a noyse,
Both haue mine eare bewitched:
Ay me! sith Fates haue so prouided,
My heart (alas) must be divided.

PHILLIDA'S LOVE-CALL

England's Helicon, 1600

Phillida. CORIDON, arise, my Coridon,
Titan shineth cleare:

Coridon. Who is it that calleth Coridon,
who is it that I heare?

Phil. Phillida thy true-Loue calleth thee, arise then, arise then ;

arise and keepe thy Flock with me:

Cor. Phillida my true-Loue, is it she?
I come then, I come then,

I come and keepe my flocke with thee.

Phil. Here are cherries ripe my Coridon, eate them for my sake:

Cor. Here's my Oaten pipe my louely one, sport for thee to make.

sith] since.

Phil. Here are threds my true-Loue, fine as silke, to knit thee, to knit thee

a paire of stockings white as milke.

Cor. Here are Reedes my true-Loue, fine and neate, to make thee, to make thee,

a bonnet to with stand the heate.

Phil. I will gather flowers my

to set in thy Cap:

Coridon,

Cor. I will gather Peares my louely one,
To put in thy lap.

Phil. I will buy my true-Loue Garters gay,
for Sundayes, for Sundayes,

to weare about his legges so tall: Cor. I will buy my true-Loue yellow Say, for Sundayes, for Sundayes,

to weare about her middle small.

Phil. When my Coridon sits on a hill,
making melody:

Cor. When my louely one goes to her wheele,
Singing cherily.

Phil. Sure me thinks my true-Loue doth excell
for sweetnesse, for sweetnesse,

our Pan, that old Arcadian Knight: Cor. And me thinks my true-Loue beares the bell for clearenesse, for clearenesse,

beyond the Nimphs that be so bright.

Phil. Had my Coridon, my Coridon, been (alack) her swaine :

Cor. Had my louely one, my louely one, beene in Ida plaine

Say] soie, silk.

Phil. Cinthia Endimion had refus'd, preferring, preferring,

My Coridon to play with-all:

Cor. The Queene of Loue had beene excus'd bequeathing, bequeathing,

my Phillida the golden ball.

Phil. Yonder comes my Mother, Coridon, whether shall I flie ?

Cor. Vnder yonder Beech my louely one, while she passeth by.

Phil. Say to her thy true-Loue was not here, remember, remember,

to morrow is another day :

Cor. Doubt me not, my true-Loue, do not feare, farewell then, farewell then,

heauen keepe our loues alway.

FAIN WOULD I CHANGE THAT NOTE

Capt. Tobias Hume's First Part of Ayres, 1605.

FAIN Would I change that note

To which fond loue hath charmd me,
Long, long to sing by roate,

Fancying that that harmde me.

Yet when this thought doth come,
Love is the perfect summe

Of all delight

I have no other choice

Either for pen or voyce,
To sing or write.

O Loue they wrong thee much,
That say thy sweete is bitter.
When thy ripe fruit is such,
As nothing can be sweeter,