I could rehearse, if that I would,

The whole effect of Nature's plaint,
When she had lost the perfect mould,

The like to whom she could not paint:
With wringing hands, how did she cry,
And what she said, I know it aye.

I know she swore with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart,
There was no loss by law of kind

That could have gone so near her heart;

And this was chiefly all her pain:

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She could not make the like again."

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,

To be the chiefest work she wrought,
In faith, methink, some better ways

On your behalf might well be sought,
Than to compare, as ye have done,

To match the candle with the sun.

The idea in the third and fourth stanzas of this song "that Nature lost the perfect mould," has been a favourite one with all song-writers and poets; and is found in the literature of all European nations.

IN AN ARBOUR GREEN.

From the morality of "Lusty Juventus," printed in the reign of Edward VI.

In an arbour green, asleep where as I lay,
The birds sang sweet in the middle of the day;
I dreamed fast of mirth and play:

In youth is pleasure.

Methought I walked still to and fro,
And from her company could not go,
But when I waked it was not so:
In youth is pleasure.

Therefore my heart is sorely plight,
Of her alone to have a sight,

Which is my joy and heart's delight;
In youth is pleasure.

LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. Anonymous. Originally printed in 1569-70, in ballad form, on a broadside in black letter.

LOVE me little, love me long,
Is the burden of iny song,
Love that is too hot and strong,
Burneth soon to waste:

Still I would not have thee cold,
Not too backward or too bold,
Love that lasteth till 'tis old,
Fadeth not in haste.
Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song.

If thou lovest me too much,
It will not prove as true as touch,
Love me little, more than such,
For I fear the end:

I am with little well content,
And a little from thee sent,
Is enough with true intent,

To be steadfast friend.

Love me little, love me long, &c.

Say thou lov'st me while thou live,

I to thee my love will give,

Never dreaming to deceive,

While that life endures:

Nay, and after death in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth,

As now when in my May of youth,
This my love assures.

Love me little, love me long, &c.

Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through life persever,
Give me that with true endeavour,
I will it restore:

A suit of durance let it be,
For all weathers, that for me,
For the land or for the sea,
Lasting evermore.
Love me little, love me long, &c.

Winter's cold or summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests on it beat,
It can never know defeat,

Never can rebel:

Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love I tell thee plain,
Thou must give or woo in vain ;
So to thee farewell.

Love me little, love me long, &c.

IF WOMEN COULD BE FAIR.
From Byrd's "Songs and Sonnets," 1588.

If women could be fair and never fond,

Or that their beauty might continue still
I would not marvel though they made men bond,
By service long to purchase their good will;
But when I see how frail these creatures are,
I laugh that men forget themselves so far.

To mark what choice they make, and how they change, How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still, And how, like laggards, wild about they range,

Scorning after reason to follow will;

Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist,
And let them fly, fair fools, what way they list?

Yet for our sport, we fawn and flatter both,

To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them on to yield by subtle oath,

The sweet content that gives such humour ease; And then we say, when we their follies try, To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I!

MAY NEVER WAS THE MONTH OF LOVE.

From Morley's "Ballets," 1595,

MAY never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers;
But rather April wet by kind,

For love is full of showers.

With soothing words, enthralling souls,
She claims in servile hands,
Her eye in silence hath a speech,
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours,
Short hap immortal harms,
Her loving looks are murdering darts,
Her songs bewitching charms.

Like winter rose, and summer ice,
Her joys are still untimely,
Before her, hope-behind remorse,

Fair first, in fine unseemly.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,

Leave off your idle pain,

Seek other mistress for your mind,

Love's service is in vain.

ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT.

THOMAS LODGE, born 1556, died 1625.

LOVE in my bosom like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet;

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amidst my tender breast,

My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah! wanton, will you?

And if I sleep, then pierceth he
With pretty slight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The live long night;

Strike I the lute, he tunes the string,

He music plays, if I but sing;

He lends me every lovely thing,

Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting:
Ah! wanton, will you?

B