O say, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries, So lovely-ripe, by my rude lips be tasted? Shall I not pluck (sweet, say not _nay_) those cherries? O let them not with summer's heat be blasted. Nature, thou know'st, bestow'd them free on thee; Then be thou kind--bestow them free on me. From JOHN FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599. O stay, sweet love; see here the place of sporting; These gentle flowers smile sweetly to invite us, And chirping birds are hitherwards resorting, Warbling sweet notes only to delight us: Then stay, dear Love, for though thou run from me, Run ne'er so fast, yet I will follow thee. I thought, my love, that I should overtake you; Sweet heart, sit down under this shadowed tree, And I will promise never to forsake you, So you will grant to me a lover's fee. Whereat she smiled and kindly to me said-- I never meant to live and die a maid. From THOMAS MORLEY's _Madrigals_, 1594. O sweet, alas, what say you? Ay me, that face discloses The scarlet blush of sweet vermilion roses. And yet, alas, I know not If such a crimson staining Be for love or disdaining; But if of love it grow not, Be it disdain conceived To see us of love's fruits so long bereaved. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613). O sweet delight, O more than human bliss With her to live that ever loving is! To hear her speak whose words are so well placed That she by them, as they by her are graced! Those looks to view that feast the viewer's eye, How blest is he that may so live and die! Such love as this the Golden Times did know, When all did reap and none took care to sow; Such love as this an endless summer makes, And all distaste from frail affection takes. So loved, so blest in my beloved am I: Which till their eyes ache let iron men envy! From ROBERT JONES' _Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs_ (1608). Oft have I mused the cause to find Why Love in lady's eyes should dwell; I thought, because himself was blind, He look'd that they should guide him well: And sure his hope but seldom fails, For Love by ladies' eyes prevails. But time at last hath taught me wit, Although I bought my wit full dear; For by her eyes my heart is hit, Deep is the wound though none appear: Their glancing beams as darts he throws, And sure he hath no shafts but those. I mused to see their eyes so bright, And little thought they had been fire; I gazed upon them with delight, But that delight hath bred desire: What better place can Love desire Than that where grow both shafts and fire? From JOHN ATTYE's _First Book of Airs_, 1622.