GEORGE GASCOIGNE.
A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER.
I Laugh sometimes with little lust;
So jest I oft, and feel no joye;
Mine ease is builded all on trust,
And yet mistrust breeds mine annoye.
I live and lack, I lack and have,
I have, and miss the thing I crave.
Then like the lark, that past the night
In heavy sleep with cares opprest,
Yet when she spies the pleasant light,
She sends sweet notes from out her breast:
So sing I now, because I think
How joys approach when sorrows shrink.
And as fair Philomene again
Can watch and sing when others sleep,
And taketh pleasure in her pain,
To wray the woe that makes her weep:
So sing I now, for to bewray
The loathsome life I lead alway.
The which to thee, dear wench, I write,
That know'st my mirth, but not my moan;
I pray God grant thee deep delight,
To live in joys when I am gone.
I cannot live; it will not be,
I die to think to part from thee.
Written by a Lover disdainfully rejected, contrary to former Promises.
I Must alledge, and thou canst tell
How faithfully I vow'd to serve:
And how thou seem'dst to like me well;
And how thou saidst I did deserve
To be thy Lord, thy Knight, thy King,
And how much more I list not sing.
And canst thou now, thou cruel one,
Condemn desert to deep despair?
Is all thy promise past and gone?
Is faith so fled into the air?
If that be so, what rests for me,
But thus, in song, to say to thee:
If Cressid's name were not so known,
And written wide on every wall;
If bruit of pride were not so blown
Upon Angelica withall;
For hault disdain, you might be she;
Or Cressid for inconstancy.
And in reward of thy desert,
I hope at last to see thee paid With deep repentance for thy part Which thou hast now so lewdly play'd;
Medoro, he must be thy make,
Since thou Orlando dost forsake.
BLOW, blow thou Winter-wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude:
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
ON a day, (alack the day!)
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom, passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air.
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen 'gan passage find,
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air (quoth he) thy cheeks may blow;-
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack! my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn.
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet,
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet;
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would swear
Juno but an Æthiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.
SONG OF FAIRIES.
NOW the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon,
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task foredone.
Now the wasted brands do glow;
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his spright,
In the churchway paths to glide;
And we Fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecat's team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic. Not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house;
I am sent with broom before
To sweep the dust behind the door.
WINTER, A SONG.
WHEN icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit! tu-whoo!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw:
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit! tu-whoo!
A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
A SONG ON FANCY.
TELL me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head;
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engender'd in the eyes;
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancy's knell:
I'll begin it. Ding dong bell.
WHERE the bee sucks, there lurk I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie,
There I couch when owls do cry;
On the bat's back I do fly,
After sun-set merrily;
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
FEAR no more the heat o' th' sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages,
Golden lads and girls, all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
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