Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1622 72. The Wakening John Attye's First Book of Airs ON a time the amorous Silvy Said to her shepherd, 'Sweet, how do ye? Kiss me this once and then God be with ye, My sweetest dear! Kiss me this once and then God be with ye, For now the morning draweth near.' With that, her fairest bosom showing, Op'ning her lips, rich perfumes blowing, She said, 'Now kiss me and be going, My sweetest dear! Kiss me this once and then be going, For now the morning draweth near.' With that the shepherd waked from sleeping, And spying where the day was peeping, He said, 'Now take my soul in keeping, My sweetest dear! Kiss me and take my soul in keeping, Since I must go, now day is near.' Nicholas Breton. 1542-1626 73. Phillida and Coridon IN the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, Forth I walk'd by the wood-side When as May was in his pride: There I spied all alone Phillida and Coridon. Much ado there was, God wot! He would love and she would not. She said, Never man was true; He said, None was false to you. He said, He had loved her long; She said, Love should have no wrong. Coridon would kiss her then; She said, Maids must kiss no men Till they did for good and all; Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth Never loved a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath, Yea and nay, and faith and troth, Such as silly shepherds use When they will not Love abuse, Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded; And Phillida, with garlands gay, Was made the Lady of the May. Nicholas Breton (?). 1542-1626 74. A Cradle Song The Arbor of Amorous Devices, 1593-4 COME little babe, come silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole, And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby, and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm. Thou little think'st and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone: Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail? And know'st not yet what thou dost ail. Come, little wretch--ah, silly heart! Mine only 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 wail the time, but be thou still. And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face! Would God Himself He might thee see!-- No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me: But come to mother, babe, and play, For father false is fled away. Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send, If death do strike me with his lance, Yet mayst thou me to him commend: If any ask thy mother's name, Tell how by love she purchased blame.