Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets; Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at ev'n he sets? Rest you then, rest, sad eyes! Melt not in weeping, While she lies sleeping, Softly, now softly lies Sleeping. From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voices_, 1598. Welcome, sweet pleasure, My wealth and treasure; To haste our playing There's no delaying, No no! This mirth delights me When sorrow frights me. Then sing we all Fa la la la la! Sorrow, content thee, Mirth must prevent thee: Though much thou grievest Thou none relievest. No no! Joy, come delight me, Though sorrow spite me. Then sing we all Fa la la la la! Grief is disdainful, Sottish and painful: Then wait on pleasure, And lose no leisure. No no! Heart's ease it lendeth And comfort sendeth. Then sing we all Fa la la la la! From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594. Were I a king, I might command content; Were I obscure, unknown should be my cares: And were I dead, no thoughts should me torment, Nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears. A doubtful choice, of three things one to crave; A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book Of Airs_ (circ. 1613). Were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me, But thy faults I curious find and speak because I love thee; Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me. Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than th' obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting; Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting. While I use of eyes enjoy and inward light of reason, Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season; Hidden mischief to conceal in state and love is treason. From _Pammelia_, 1609. What hap had I to marry a shrow! For she hath given me many a blow, And how to please her alack I do not know. From morn to even her tongue ne'er lies, Sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries, Yet I can scarce keep her talents[23] from mine eyes. If I go abroad and late come in,-- "Sir knave," saith she, "Where have you been?" And do I well or ill she claps me on the skin. [23] Old form of "talons." From ORLANDO GIBBONS' _First Set Of Madrigals_, 1612. (Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)