Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem, Would God I were in thee! Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see! Thy gardens and thy gallant walks Continually are green; There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. Quite through the streets, with silver sound, The flood of Life doth flow; Upon whose banks on every side The wood of Life doth grow. There trees for evermore bear fruit, And evermore do spring; There evermore the angels sit, And evermore do sing. Our Lady sings _Magnificat_ With tones surpassing sweet; And all the virgins bear their part, Sitting about her feet. Hierusalem, my happy home, Would God I were in thee! Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see! _62._ _Icarus_ Robert Jones’s _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601 Love wing’d my Hopes and taught me how to fly Far from base earth, but not to mount too high: For true pleasure Lives in measure, Which if men forsake, Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take. But my vain Hopes, proud of their new-taught flight, Enamour’d sought to woo the sun’s fair light, Whose rich brightness Moved their lightness To aspire so high That all scorch’d and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie. And none but Love their woeful hap did rue, For Love did know that their desires were true; Though fate frownèd, And now drownèd They in sorrow dwell, It was the purest light of heav’n for whose fair love they fell. _63._ _Madrigal_ Davison’s _Poetical Rhapsody_, 1602 My Love in her attire doth show her wit, It doth so well become her; For every season she hath dressings fit, For Winter, Spring, and Summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on: But Beauty’s self she is When all her robes are gone. _64._ _How can the Heart forget her?_ Davison’s _Poetical Rhapsody_, 1602 At her fair hands how have I grace entreated With prayers oft repeated! Yet still my love is thwarted: Heart, let her go, for she’ll not be converted-- Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted. How often have my sighs declared my anguish, Wherein I daily languish! Yet still she doth procure it: Heart, let her go, for I can not endure it-- Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.