he call'd her
Primrose pearls prick'd in a blanket.

From FRANCIS PILKINGTON's _First Set of Madrigals and Pastorals_, 1613.

Pour forth, mine eyes, the fountains of your tears;
Break, heart, and die, for now no hope appears;
Hope, upon which before my thoughts were fed,
Hath left me quite forlorn and from me fled.
Yet, see, she smiles! O see, some hope appears!
Hold, heart, and live; mine eyes, cease off your tears.

From _Airs sung and played at Brougham Castle_, 1618, by GEORGE MASON
and JOHN EARSDEN.

Robin is a lovely lad,
No lass a smoother ever had;
Tommy hath a look as bright
As is the rosy morning light;
Tib is dark and brown of hue,
But like her colour firm and true;
Jenny hath a lip to kiss
Wherein a spring of nectar is;
Simkin well his mirth can place
And words to win a woman's grace;
Sib is all in all to me,
There is no Queen of Love but she.

From THOMAS RAVENSCROFT's _Brief Discourse_, 1614.

THE SATYRS' DANCE.

Round-a, round-a, keep your ring:
To the glorious sun we sing,--
Ho, ho!
He that wears the flaming rays,
And th' imperial crown of bays,
Him with shouts and songs we praise--
Ho, ho!
That in his bounty he'd vouchsafe to grace
The humble sylvans and their shaggy race.

From THOMAS MORLEY's _Canzonets_, 1593.

See, see, mine own sweet jewel,
What I have for my darling:
A robin-redbreast and a starling.
These I give both in hope to move thee;
Yet thou say'st I do not love thee.

From WILLIAM CORKINE's _Airs_, 1610.

Shall a frown or angry eye,
Shall a word unfitly placed,
Shall a shadow make me flie
As if I were with tigers chased?
Love must not be so disgraced.

Shall I woo her in despight?
Shall I turn her from her flying?
Shall I tempt her with delight?
Shall I laugh at her denying?
No: beware of lovers' crying.

Shall I then with patient mind
Still attend her wayward pleasure?
Time will make her prove more kind,
Let her coyness then take leisure:
She is worthy such a treasure.

From RICHARD ALISON's _An Hours Recreation in Music_, 1606.

Shall I abide this jesting?
I weep, and she's a-feasting!
O cruel fancy, that so doth blind me
To love one that doth not mind me!

Can I abide this prancing?