Lost is our freedom When we submit to women so: Why do we need 'em When, in their best, they work our woe? There is no wisdom Can alter ends by Fate prefixt. O, why is the good of man with evil mixt? Never were days yet called two But one night went betwixt. From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601. Kind in unkindness, when will you relent And cease with faint love true love to torment? Still entertained, excluded still I stand; Her glove still hold, but cannot touch the hand. In her fair hand my hopes and comforts rest: O might my fortunes with that hand be blest! No envious breaths then my deserts could shake, For they are good whom such true love doth make. O let not beauty so forget her birth That it should fruitless home return to earth! Love is the fruit of beauty, then love one! Not your sweet self, for such self-love is none. Love one that only lives in loving you; Whose wronged deserts would you with pity view, This strange distaste which your affection sways Would relish love, and you find better days. Thus till my happy sight your beauty views, Whose sweet remembrance still my hope renews, Let these poor lines solicit love for me, And place my joys where my desires would be. From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals of Five and Six Parts_, 1600. Lady, the birds right fairly Are singing ever early; The lark, the thrush, the nightingale, The make-sport cuckoo and the quail. These sing of Love! then why sleep ye? To love your sleep it may not be. From THOMAS GREAVES' _Songs of Sundry Kinds_, 1604. Lady, the melting crystal of your eye Like frozen drops upon your cheeks did lie; Mine eye was dancing on them with delight, And saw love's flames within them burning bright, Which did mine eye entice To play with burning ice; But O, my heart thus sporting with desire, My careless eye did set my heart on fire. O that a drop from such a sweet fount flying Should flame like fire and leave my heart a-dying! I burn, my tears can never drench it Till in your eyes I bathe my heart and quench it: But there, alas, love with his fire lies sleeping, And all conspire to burn my heart with weeping. From JOHN WILBYE's _Madrigals_, 1598. Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting, Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, My eyes present me with a double doubting: For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes Whether the roses be your lips or your lips [be] the roses. From J. DANYEL's _Songs for the Lute, Viol and Voice_, 1606.