Robin is a lovely lad, No lass a smoother ever had; Tommy hath a look as bright As is the rosy morning light; Tib is dark and brown of hue, But like her colour firm and true; Jenny hath a lip to kiss Wherein a spring of nectar is; Simkin well his mirth can place And words to win a woman's grace; Sib is all in all to me, There is no Queen of Love but she. From THOMAS RAVENSCROFT's _Brief Discourse_, 1614. THE SATYRS' DANCE. Round-a, round-a, keep your ring: To the glorious sun we sing,-- Ho, ho! He that wears the flaming rays, And th' imperial crown of bays, Him with shouts and songs we praise-- Ho, ho! That in his bounty he'd vouchsafe to grace The humble sylvans and their shaggy race. From THOMAS MORLEY's _Canzonets_, 1593. See, see, mine own sweet jewel, What I have for my darling: A robin-redbreast and a starling. These I give both in hope to move thee; Yet thou say'st I do not love thee. From WILLIAM CORKINE's _Airs_, 1610. Shall a frown or angry eye, Shall a word unfitly placed, Shall a shadow make me flie As if I were with tigers chased? Love must not be so disgraced. Shall I woo her in despight? Shall I turn her from her flying? Shall I tempt her with delight? Shall I laugh at her denying? No: beware of lovers' crying. Shall I then with patient mind Still attend her wayward pleasure? Time will make her prove more kind, Let her coyness then take leisure: She is worthy such a treasure. From RICHARD ALISON's _An Hours Recreation in Music_, 1606. Shall I abide this jesting? I weep, and she's a-feasting! O cruel fancy, that so doth blind me To love one that doth not mind me! Can I abide this prancing? I weep, and she's a-dancing! O cruel fancy, so to betray me! Thou goest about to slay me. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613). Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee When the evening beams are set? Shall I not excluded be, Will you find no feigned let? Let me not, for pity, more Tell the long hours at your door. Who can tell what thief or foe, In the covert of the night, For his prey will work my woe, Or through wicked foul despite? So may I die unredrest Ere my long love be possest. But to let such dangers pass, Which a lover's thoughts disdain, 'Tis enough in such a place To attend love's joys in vain: Do not mock me in thy bed, While these cold nights freeze me dead. From ROBERT JONES' _Ultimum Vale or Third Book of Airs_ (1608). Shall I look to ease my grief? No, my sight is lost with eying: Shall I speak and beg relief? No, my voice is hoarse with crying: What remains but only dying?