Love ye who list, I force him not: Since God is wot, The more I wail, The less my sighs and tears prevail. What shall I do? but say therefore, Hey ho! chil love no more. [19] Distracted. From THOMAS WEELKES' _Airs or Fantastic Spirits_, 1608. Though my carriage be but careless, Though my looks be of the sternest, Yet my passions are compareless; When I love, I love in earnest. No; my wits are not so wild, But a gentle soul may yoke me; Nor my heart so hard compiled, But it melts, if love provoke me. From ROBERT JONES' _Musical Dream_, 1609. (This song is also printed in Thomas Campion's _Two Books of Airs_, circ. 1613.) Though your strangeness frets my heart, Yet must I not complain; You persuade me 'tis but art Which secret love must feign; If another you affect, 'Tis but a toy, t' avoid suspect. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing. When your wish'd sight I desire, Suspicion you pretend, Causeless you yourself retire Whilst I in vain attend, Thus a lover, as you say, Still made more eager by delay. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing. When another holds your hand You'll swear I hold your heart; Whilst my rival close doth stand And I sit far apart, I am nearer yet than they, Hid in your bosom, as you say. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing. Would a rival then I were Or[20] else a secret friend, So much lesser should I fear And not so much attend. They enjoy you, every one, Yet must I seem your friend alone. Is this fair excusing? O no, all is abusing. [20] Old ed. "Some." From GILES FARNABY's _Canzonets_, 1598. Thrice blessed be the giver That gave sweet love that golden quiver, And live he long among the gods anointed That made the arrow-heads sharp-pointed: If either of them both had quailed, She of my love and I of hers had failed. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613). Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air, Thrice sit thou mute in the enchanted chair, Then thrice-three times tie up this true love's knot, And murmur soft "She will or she will not." Go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire, These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar, This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave, That all my fears and cares an end may have. Then come, you Fairies! dance with me a round! Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound! --In vain are all the charms I can devise: She hath an art to break them with her eyes. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).