Th' ape loves to meddle When he finds a man idle, Else is he a-flirting Where his mark is a-courting; When women grow true Come teach me to sue, Then I'll come to thee Pray thee and woo thee. Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger, For if you hit me, knave, I'll call thee, beggar. From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601. Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly Far from base earth, but not to mount too high; For true pleasure Lives in measure, Which if men forsake, Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take. But my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight, Enamoured sought to woo the sun's fair light, Whose rich brightness Moved their lightness To aspire so high That all scorched and consumed with fire now drown'd in woe they lie. And none but Love their woeful hap did rue, For Love did know that their desires were true; Though Fate frowned, And now drowned They in sorrow dwell, It was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613). "Maids are simple," some men say, "They forsooth will trust no men." But should they men's wills obey, Maids were very simple then. Truth a rare flower now is grown, Few men wear it in their hearts; Lovers are more easily known By their follies than deserts. Safer may we credit give To a faithless wandering Jew, Than a young man's vows believe When he swears his love is true. Love they make a poor blind child, But let none trust such as he; Rather than to be beguiled, Ever let me simple be. From _Melismata_, 1611. THE BELLMAN's SONG. Maids to bed and cover coal; Let the mouse out of her hole; Crickets in the chimney sing Whilst the little bell doth ring; If fast asleep, who can tell When the clapper hits the bell? From MARTIN PEERSON's _Mottects or Grave Chamber-Music_, 1630. More than most fair, full of all heavenly fire, Kindled above to shew the Maker's glory; Beauty's first-born, in whom all powers conspire To write the Graces' life and Muses' story; If in my heart all nymphs else be defaced, Honour the shrine where you alone are placed. Thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits, True character of honour in perfection, Thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits, And glorious prison of men's pure affection: If in my heart all nymphs else be defaced Honour the shrine where you alone are placed. From THOMAS VAUTOR's _Songs of divers Airs and Natures_, 1619. Mother, I will have a husband, And I will have him out of hand! Mother, I will sure have one In spite of her that will have none.