61.

Thus, if a king were coming, would we do;
And 'twere good reason too;

For 'tis a duteous thing

To show all honour to an earthly king,
And after all our travail and our cost,
So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.

But at the coming of the King of Heaven
All's set at six and seven;

We wallow in our sin,

Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn.
We entertain Him always like a stranger,

And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger.

The New Jerusalem

Song of Mary the Mother of
Chrisi (London: E. Allde), 1601

IERUSALEM, my happy home,
When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbour of the Saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell,
There envy bears no sway;
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,

But pleasure every way.

Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square;

Thy gates are of right orient pearl,
Exceeding rich and rare.

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles
With carbuncles do shine;
Thy very streets are paved with gold,
Surpassing clear and fine.

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;

63.

Though fate frowned,

And now drowned

They in sorrow dwell,

the purest light of heav'n for whose fair love they fell.

Madrigal

Davison's Poetical Rhapsody, 1602

Y Love in her attire doth show her wit,

MY

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?

AT

Davison's Poetical Rhapsody, 1602

T 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.

But shall I still a true affection owe her,

Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her,

And shall she still disdain me?

Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me— Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.

But if the love that hath and still doth burn me No love at length return me,

Out of my thoughts I'll set her :

Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her! Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

Fix'd in the heart, how can the heart forget her?

? F. or W. Davison

65.

66.

I

Tears

John Dowland's Third and Last
Book of Songs or Airs, 1603

WEEP you no more, sad fountains;

What need you flow so fast?

Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
But my Sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,

That now lies sleeping

Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,

A rest that peace begets;
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at even he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping

Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping.

My Lady's Tears

John Dowland's Third and Last
Book of Songs or Airs, 1603

SAW my Lady weep,

And Sorrow proud to be advanced so

In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.

Her face was full of woe;

But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.