Yonder lies the snow,

But my heart cannot melt it:
Love shoots from his bow,

And my poor heart hath felt it.
Heigh, heigho!

I'LL NEVER LOVE MORE.

STAY, O turn, O pity me

That sighs, that sues for love of thee! O lack! I never loved before;

If you deny, I'll never love more.

No hope, no help! then wretched I
Must lose, must lack, must pine, and die;
Since you neglect when I implore.
Farewell, hard, I'll ne'er love more.

THE

BEWARE OF LOVE.

HERE is not any wise man,
That fancy can a woman;

Then never turn your eyes on
A thing that is so common:
For be they foul or fair,
They tempting devils are,
Since they first fell;

They that love do live in hell,

And therefore, men, beware.

OUT UPON YE ALL!

FOOLISH, idle toys,

That nature gave unto us,

But to curb our joys,

And only to undo us;

For since Lucretia's fall,

There are none chaste at all;

Or if perchance there be

One in an empery,

Some other malady

Makes her far worse than she.
Out upon ye all!

"Twere too much to tell
The follies that attend ye;
He must love you well
That can but discommend ye;
For your deserts are such,
Man cannot rail too much;
Nor is the world so blind,
But it may easily find
The body, or the mind,
Tainted in womankind.

O, the devil take you

INVOCATION TO APOLLO.

all!

AIR Apollo, whose bright beams

FAIR

Cheer all the world below:

The birds that sing, the plants that spring,
The herbs and flowers that grow:

O, lend thy aid to a swain sore oppressed,
That his mind

Soon may find

The delight that sense admits!
And by a maid let his harms be redressed,
That no pain

Do remain

In his mind to offend his wits!

SAMUEL ROWLEY.

[ONE of the players in the establishment of the Prince of Wales, and included in the list of Henslowe's authors. His principal pieces are the play from which the following song is

know me.

taken, and a comedy called When you see me you He also assisted other writers in some of the Moral Plays.]

THE NOBLE SPANISH SOLDIER.

SORROW.

1634.

OH, sorrow, sorrow, say where dost thou dwell?

In the lowest room of hell.

Art thou born of human race?
No, no, I have a furier face.
Art thou in city, town, or court?
I to every place resort.

Oh, why into the world is sorrow sent?
Men afflicted best repent.

What dost thou feed on?
Broken sleep.

What takest thou pleasure in?

To weep,

To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groan,
To wring my hands, to sit alone.

Oh when, oh when shall sorrow quiet have?
Never, never, never, never.
Never till she finds a grave.

THOMAS GOFFE.

1592-1627.

[THOMAS GOFFE was born in Essex, about 1592, and educated at Westminster. In 1609 he entered Christ Church, Oxford, and having had the degree of bachelor of divinity conferred upon him, was preferred to the living of East Clandon, in Surrey, in 1623. He is said to have been a professed woman-hater, yet, notwithstanding, married the wife of his predecessor, who revenged the wrongs of the whole sex upon him by the violence of her temper, and finally, it is supposed, shortened his life. He died in 1627. He was the author of four dramas, and is believed in the latter part of his life to have embraced the church of Rome.]

THE DRAMATISTS.

13

ORESTE S. 1633.

NURSE'S SONG

LULLABY, lullaby, baby,
Great Argos' joy,

The King of Greece thou art born to be,
In despite of Troy.

Rest ever wait upon thy head,

Sleep close thine eyes,

The blessed guard tend on thy bed

Of deities.

O, how this brow will beseem a crown!
How these locks will shine!

Like the rays of the sun on the ground,
These locks of thine!

The nurse of heaven will send thee milk;

Mayst thou suck a Queen.

Thy drink love's nectar, and clothes of silk; A god mayst thou seem.

Cupid sit on this rosean cheek,

On these ruby lips.

May thy mind like a lamb be meek,

In the vales which trips.

Lullaby, lullaby, baby, &c.

THE MADNESS OF ORESTES.

WEEP, weep, you Argonauts,

Bewail the day

That first to fatal Troy

You took your way.

Weep, Greece, weep, Greece,

Two kings are dead.

Argos, thou Argos, now a grave
Where kings are buried;

No heir, no heir is left,

But one that's mad.

See, Argos, hast not thou
Cause to be sad?

Sleep, sleep, wild brain,
Rest, rock thy sense,
Live if thou canst

To grieve for thy offence.
Weep, weep, you Argonauts!

THE CARELESS SHEPHERDESS.

1656.

NOW

THE FOLLY OF LOVE.

fie on love, it ill befits,

Or man and woman know it,

Love was not meant for people in their wits, And they that fondly show it

Betray their too much feathered brains, And shall have only Bedlam for their pains.

To love is to distract my sleep,

And waking to wear fetters;
To love is but to go to school to weep;

I'll leave it for my betters.

If single love be such a curse,

To marry is to make it ten times worse.

THE TYRANNY OF CUPID.

LIND Cupid lay aside thy bow,

BLIND

Thou dost not know its use,

For love, thou tyranny dost show,
Thy kindness is abuse.

Thou wert called a pretty boy,

Art thought a skeleton,

For thou like death dost still destroy,
When thou dost strike but one.