Fain would I change that note To which fond Love hath charm’d me Long, long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harm’d me: Yet when this thought doth come, ‘Love is the perfect sum Of all delight,’ I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write. O Love! they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter, When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss, Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee: I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee. _69._ _Since First I saw your Face_ Thomas Ford’s _Music of Sundry Kinds_, 1607 Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye; If now I be disdainèd I wish my heart had never known ye. What? I that loved and you that liked, shall we begin to wrangle? No, no, no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle. If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me; Or if my hands had stray’d but a touch, then justly might you leave me. I ask’d you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me? No, no, no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me. The Sun, whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder, And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder: Where beauty moves and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me, There, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me! _70._ _There is a Lady sweet and kind_ Thomas Ford’s _Music of Sundry Kinds_, 1607 There is a Lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I love her till I die. Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart, I know not why, And yet I love her till I die. Cupid is wingèd and doth range, Her country so my love doth change: But change she earth, or change she sky, Yet will I love her till I die. _71._ _Love not me for comely grace_ John Wilbye’s _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609 Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part, No, nor for a constant heart: For these may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever: Keep, therefore, a true woman’s eye, And love me still but know not why-- So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever! _72._ _The Wakening_ John Attye’s _First Book of Airs_, 1622