When did I err in blindness? Or vex her with unkindness? If my cares served her alone, Why is she thus untimely gone? True love abides to th' hour of dying: False love is ever flying. False! then farewell for ever! Once false proves faithful never! He that boasts now of thy love, Shall soon, my present fortunes prove Were he as fair as bright Adonis: Faith is not had where none is! From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals of Five and Six Parts_, 1600 Now let us make a merry greeting And thank God Cupid for our meeting: My heart is full of joy and pleasure Since thou art here, mine only treasure. Now will we dance and sport and play And sing a merry roundelay. From ROBERT JONES's _Second Book of Airs_, 1601. (Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.) Now what is love, I pray thee tell? It is that fountain and that well Where pleasures and repentance dwell; It is perhaps that sancing-bell[11] That tolls all in to heaven or hell: And this is love, as I hear tell. Now what is love, I pray thee say? It is a work on holyday, It is December matched with May, When lusty bloods in fresh array Hear ten months after of their play: And this is love, as I hear say. Now what is love, I pray thee feign? It is a sunshine mixed with rain, It is a gentle pleasing pain, A flower that dies and springs again, It is a No that would full fain: And this is love as I hear sain. Yet what is love, I pray thee say? It is a pretty shady way As well found out by night as day, It is a thing will soon decay; Then take the vantage whilst you may: And this is love, as I hear say. Now what is love, I pray thee show? A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for mo, And he that proves shall find it so: And this is love, as I well know. [11] Saint's-bell; the little bell that called to prayers. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613). Now winter nights enlarge The number of their hours, And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze, And cups o'erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love, While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep's leaden spells remove. This time doth well dispense With lovers' long discourse; Much, speech hath some defence Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well; Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. The summer hath his joys And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights. From JOHN WARD's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1613.