I feign not friendship where I hate, I fawn not on the great for grace, I prize, I praise a mean estate Ne yet too lofty, nor too base, This is all my choice, my cheer-- A mind content and conscience clear. From THOMAS MORLEY's _Madrigals to Four Voices_, 1600. I will no more come to thee That flout'st me when I woo thee; Still ty hy thou criest And all my lovely rings and pins denyest. O say, alas, what moves thee To grieve him so that loves thee? Leave, alas, then, ah leave tormenting And give my burning some relenting. From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601. If fathers knew but how to leave Their children wit as they do wealth, And could constrain them to receive That physic which brings perfect health, The world would not admiring stand A woman's face and woman's hand. Women confess they must obey, We men will needs be servants still; We kiss their hands, and what they say We must commend, be't ne'er so ill: Thus we, like fools, admiring stand Her pretty foot and pretty hand. We blame their pride, which we increase By making mountains of a mouse; We praise because we know we please; Poor women are too credulous To think that we admiring stand Or foot, or face, or foolish hand. From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601. If I urge my kind desires, She, unkind, doth them reject, Women's hearts are painted fires, To deceive them that affect. I alone love's fires include: She alone doth them delude. She hath often vowed her love: But alas no fruit I find. That her fires are false I prove Yet, in her, no fault I find. I was thus unhappy born, And ordained to be her scorn. Yet if human care or pain, May the heavenly order change; She will hate her own disdain, And repent she was so strange: For a truer heart than I, Never lived, nor loved to die. From JOHN DOWLAND's _First Book of Songs and Airs_, 1597. If my complaints could passions move, Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong; My passions were enough to prove That my despairs had governed me too long. O Love, I live and die in thee! Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me. Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks, Yet thou dost hope when I despair; My heart for thy unkindness breaks; Thou say'st thou can'st my harms repair, And when I hope thou mak'st me hope in vain; Yet for redress thou let'st me still complain. Can Love be rich, and yet I want? Is Love my judge, and yet am I condemned? Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant; Thou made a god, and yet thy power contemned! That I do live, it is thy power; That I desire it is thy worth.