Now I see thy looks were feigned Quickly lost, and quickly gained; Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers, Heart inconstant, light as feathers, Tongue untrusty, subtle sighted, Wanton will with change delighted. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason! Of thine eye I made my mirror, From thy beauty came my error, All thy words I counted witty, All thy sighs I deemed pity, Thy false tears, that me aggrieved First of all my trust deceived. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason! Feigned acceptance when I asked, Lovely words with cunning masked, Holy vows, but heart unholy; Wretched man, my trust was folly; Lily white, and pretty winking, Solemn vows but sorry thinking. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason! Now I see, O seemly cruel, Others warm them at my fuel, Wit shall guide me in this durance Since in love is no assurance: Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure, Beauty is a fading treasure. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid, plague thee for thy treason! Prime youth lasts not, age will follow And make white those tresses yellow; Wrinkled face, for looks delightful, Shall acquaint the dame despiteful. And when time shall date thy glory, Then too late thou wilt be sorry. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason! From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598. Now is my Chloris fresh as May, Clad all in green and flowers gay. Fa la la! O might I think August were near That harvest joy might soon appear. Fa la la! But she keeps May throughout the year, And August never comes the near. Fa la la! Yet will I hope, though she be May, August will come another day. Fa la la! From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets_, 1595. Now is the month of maying, When merry lads are playing Each with his bonny lass Upon the greeny grass. Fa la la! The spring clad all in gladness Doth laugh at winter's sadness, And to the bagpipe's sound The nymphs tread out their ground. Fa la la! Fie then, why sit we musing, Youth's sweet delight refusing? Say, dainty nymphs, and speak, Shall we play barley-break. Fa la la! From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613). Now let her change! and spare not! Since she proves strange, I care not! Feigned love charmed so my delight, That still I doted on her sight. But she is gone! new joys embracing, And my distress disgracing.