Love and I of late did part, But the boy, my peace envying, Like a Parthian threw his dart Backward, and did wound me flying: What remains but only dying? She whom then I looked on, My remembrance beautifying, Stays with me though I am gone, Gone and at her mercy lying: What remains but only dying? Shall I try her thoughts and write? No I have no means of trying: If I should, yet at first sight She would answer with denying: What remains but only dying? Thus my vital breath doth waste, And, my blood with sorrow drying, Sighs and tears make life to last For a while, their place supplying: What remains but only dying? From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Airs_, 1601. She whose matchless beauty staineth What best judgment fair'st maintaineth, She, O she, my love disdaineth. Can a creature, so excelling, Harbour scorn in beauty's dwelling, All kind pity thence expelling? Pity beauty much commendeth And th' embracer oft befriendeth When all eye-contentment endeth. Time proves beauty transitory; Scorn, the stain of beauty's glory, In time makes the scorner sorry. None adores the sun declining; Love all love falls to resigning When the sun of love leaves shining. So, when flower of beauty fails thee, And age, stealing on, assails thee, Then mark what this scorn avails thee. Then those hearts, which now complaining Feel the wounds of thy disdaining, Shall contemn thy beauty waning. Yea, thine own heart, now dear-prized, Shall with spite and grief surprised Burst to find itself despised. When like harms have them requited Who in others' harms delighted, Pleasingly the wrong'd are righted. Such revenge my wrongs attending, Hope still lives on time depending, By thy plagues thy torrents ending. From THOMAS MORLEY's _First Book of Ballets to Five Voices_, 1595. Shoot, false Love! I care not; Spend thy shafts and spare not! Fa la la! I fear not, I, thy might, And less I weigh thy spite; All naked I unarm me,-- If thou canst, now shoot and harm me! So lightly I esteem thee As now a child I dream thee. Fa la la la! Long thy bow did fear[13] me, While thy pomp did blear me; Fa la la! But now I do perceive Thy art is to deceive; And every simple lover All thy falsehood can discover. Then weep, Love! and be sorry, For thou hast lost thy glory. Fa la la la! [13] Frighten. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_, (circ. 1613).