grief.

Their smiles we want if aught they want,
And either we their wills must grant
Or die they will, or are with child;
Their longings must not be beguiled:
O 'tis of all our follies chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.

Foul wives are jealous, fair wives false,
Marriage to either binds us thrall;
Wherefore being bound we must obey
And forced be perforce to say,--
Of all our bliss it is the chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Songs of Sundry Natures_, 1589.

From Citheron the warlike boy is fled
And smiling sits upon a Virgin's lap,--
Thereby to train poor misers to the trap,
Whom Beauty draws with fancy to be fed:
And when Desire with eager looks is led,
Then from her eyes
The arrow flies,
Feather'd with flame, arm'd with a golden head.

Her careless thoughts are freed of that flame
Wherewith her thralls are scorched to the heart:
If Love would so, would God the enchanting dart
Might once return and burn from whence it came!
Not to deface of Beauty's work the frame,
But by rebound
It might be found
What secret smart I suffer by the same.

If Love be just, then just is my desire;
And if unjust, why is he call'd a God?
O God, O God, O Just! reserve thy rod
To chasten those that from thy laws retire!
But choose aright (good Love! I thee require)
The golden head,
Not that of lead!
Her heart is frost and must dissolve by fire.

From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1600.

TO MASTER HUGH HOLLAND.

From Fame's desire, from Love's delight retired,
In these sad groves an hermit's life I lead:
And those false pleasures, which I once admired,
With sad remembrance of my fall, I dread.
To birds, to trees, to earth, impart I this;
For she less secret, and as senseless is.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I love your solitariness!

Experience which repentance only brings,
Doth bid me, now, my heart from Love estrange!
Love is disdained when it doth look at Kings;
And Love low placed base and apt to change.
There Power doth take from him his liberty,
Her[e] Want of Worth makes him in cradle die.
O sweet woods! the delight of solitariness!