But plucked and strained through ruder hands,
Her sweets no longer with her dwells;

But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,

When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside;

And I will sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love for more than one,
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

SONG.

What means this strangeness now of late,
Since time must truth approve?

This distance may consist with state,
It cannot stand with love.

'Tis either cunning or distrust,
That may such ways allow:
The first is base, the last unjust,
Let neither blemish you.

For if you mean to draw me on,
There needs not half this art:
And if you mean to have me gone,
You over-act your part.

If kindness cross your wished content,
Dismiss me with a frown;

I'll give you all the love that's spent,
The rest shall be my own.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

15-16-.

[“Pleasant D'alogues and Dramas." 1607.]

SONG.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow :
Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft,
To give my love good morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow:
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good morrow.

To give my love good morrow,
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin red-breast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;

And from each bill let music shrill

Give my fair love good morrow.
Blackbird, and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow

[“ The Fair Maid of the Exchange.” 1637.]

Ye little birds that sit and sing

Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks
Within her garden-alleys ;

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.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

1590-1645.

["Britannia's Pastorals." 1616.]

SHALL I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then awhile to me;

And if such a woman move,
As I now shall versify,
Be assured 'tis she, or none
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art:

In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embraced a heart.
So much good so truly tried,

Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath without desire

To make known how much she hath;

And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath.

Full of pity as may be,

Though, perhaps, not so to me.

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth;

Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth :

Likelihood enough to prove.
Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is and if you know

Such a one as I have sung;

Be she brown, or fair, or so,

That she be but somewhile young:

Be assured 'tis she, or none,

That I love, and love alone.

WELCOME, WELCOME DO I SING.

[From a inanuscript copy of his poems in the Lansdowne collection.]

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,

Far more welcome than the Spring;

He that parteth from you never,

Shall enjoy a spring forever.

Love, that to the voice is near,

Breaking from your ivory pale,

Need not walk abroad to hear

The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun

To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

'Tis a fool, if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc.