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Go pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah, me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,
To her is only known my love
Which from the world is hidden.
Go pretty birds and tell her so,
See that your notes strain not too low,
For still, methinks, I see her frown;
Ye pretty wantons warble.

Go tune your voices' harmony
And sing, I am her lover;

Strain loud and sweet, that every note
With sweet content may move her:
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice;
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons warble.

O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber!

Sing round about her rosy bed

That waking she may wonder:

Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you;
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.

T. Heywood

55

A

Corydon's Song

BLITHE and bonny country lass,
Heigh ho, the bonny lass!

Sat sighing on the tender grass,

66

And weeping said, Will none come woo me?'

A smicker boy, a lither swain,

Heigh ho, a smicker swain!

That in his love was wanton fain,

With smiling looks straight came unto her.

When as the wanton wench espied,

Heigh ho, when she espied!

The means to make herself a bride,
She simpered smooth like bonnybell:
The swain that saw her squint-eyed kind,
Heigh ho, squint-eyed kind!

His arms about her body twined,

And "Fair lass, how fare ye, well?"

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The country kit said, Well forsooth,
Heigh ho, well forsooth!

But that I have a longing tooth,

A longing tooth that makes me cry."
"Alas!" said he, "what gars thy grief?
Heigh ho, what gars thy grief?”
"A wound," quoth she, "without relief:
I fear a maid that I shall die."

"If that be all," the shepherd said,
"Heigh ho," the shepherd said,

"I'll make thee wive it, gentle maid,
And so recure thy malady."

Hereon they kissed with many an oath,
Heigh ho, with many an oath,

And 'fore God Pan did plight their troth,
And to the church they hied them fast.

And God send every pretty peat,
Heigh ho, the pretty peat!
That fears to die of this conceit,
So kind a friend to help at last.

T. Lodge

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MY true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for another given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides:

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

Sir P. Sidney

57.

Wooing Stuff

FAINT Amorist, what! dost thou think

To taste love's honey, and not drink

One dram of gall? or to devour

A world of sweet and taste no sour?
Dost thou ever think to enter

The Elysian fields, that dar'st not venture
In Charon's barge? a lover's mind
Must use to sail with every wind.
He that loves, and fears to try,
Learns his mistress to deny.

Doth she chide thee? 'tis to shew it
That thy coldness makes her do it.
Is she silent? is she mute?
Silence fully grants thy suit.

Doth she pout, and leave the room?
Then she goes to bid thee come.
Is she sick? Why then be sure
She invites thee to the cure.
Doth she cross thy suit with No?
Tush, she loves to hear thee woo.
Doth she call the faith of man

In question? Nay, she loves thee than:
And if ere she makes a blot,

She's lost if that thou hit'st her not.

He that after ten denials

Dares attempt no further trials,
Hath no warrant to acquire

The dainties of his chaste desire.

Sir P. Sidney

58.

The Lover's Theme

AIN to content, I bend myself to write,

FAIN

But what to write my mind can scarce conceive: Your radiant eyes crave objects of delight My heart no glad impressions can receive: To write of grief is but a tedious thing, And woeful men of woe must needly sing.

To write the truce, the wars, the strife, the peace,
That Love once wrought in my distempered heart,
Were but to cause my wonted woes increase,
And yield new life to my concealed smart:

Who tempts the ear with tedious lines of grief,
That waits for joy, complains without relief.

To write what pains supplanteth others' joy,
Therefore is folly in the greatest wit:
Who feels may best decipher the annoy:
Who knows the grief but he that tasteth it?
Who writes of woe must needs be woe-begone,
And writing feel, and feeling write of moan.

To write the temper of my last desire,
That likes me best, and appertains you most:
You are the Pharos whereto now retire
My thoughts, long wand'ring in a foreign coast:
In you they live, to other joys they die,
And, living, draw their food from your fair eye.

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