If she for this with clouds do mask her eyes And make the heavens dark with her disdain, With windy sighs disperse them in the skies Or with thy tears dissolve them into rain. Thoughts, Hopes, and Love, return to me no more Till Cynthia shine as she hath done before. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613). Never love unless you can Bear with all the faults of man: Men sometimes will jealous be Though but little cause they see; And hang the head as discontent, And speak what straight they will repent. Men that but one saint adore Make a show of love to more; Beauty must be scorned in none, Though but truly served in one: For what is courtship but disguise? True hearts may have dissembling eyes. Men, when their affairs require, Must awhile themselves retire; Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk, And not ever sit and talk: If these and such-like you can bear, Then like, and love, and never fear! From JOHN FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599. (Verses by Samuel Daniel.) Now each creature joys the other, Passing happy days and hours: One bird reports unto another By the fall of silver showers; Whilst the Earth, our common Mother, Hath her bosom decked with flowers. From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals_, 1597. Now every tree renews his summer's green, Why is your heart in winter's garments clad? Your beauty says my love is summer's queen, But your cold love like winter makes me sad: Then either spring with buds of love again Or else congeal my thoughts with your disdain. From _Pammelia_, 1609. Now God be with old Simeon, For he made cans for many-a-one, And a good old man was he; And Jinkin was his journeyman, And he could tipple of every can, And thus he said to me: "To whom drink you?" "Sir knave, to you." Then hey-ho, jolly Jinkin! I spie a knave in drinking. From ROBERT JONES' _Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs_ (1608). Now have I learn'd with much ado at last By true disdain to kill desire; This was the mark at which I shot so fast, Unto this height I did aspire: Proud Love, now do thy worst and spare not, For thee and all thy shafts I care not. What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind, What life to quicken dead desire? I count thy words and oaths as light as wind, I feel no heat in all thy fire: Go, change thy bow and get a stronger, Go, break thy shafts and buy thee longer. In vain thou bait'st thy hook with beauty's blaze, In vain thy wanton eyes allure; These are but toys for them that love to gaze, I know what harm thy looks procure: Some strange conceit must be devised, Or thou and all thy skill despised. From THOMAS FORD's _Music of Sundry Kinds_, 1607.