A thousand thousand years have gone, And aeons still shall pass, Yet shall the world forever sing Of him who loved a lass - An olden song, a golden song, And sing it unafraid: "There was a youth, once on a time, Who dearly loved a maid."
Kendall Banning [1879-
IN PRAISE OF HER
FIRST SONG From "Astrophel and Stella"
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure? Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth? Who womankind at once both decks and staineth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet, whose step all sweetness planteth? Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish? Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand, which without stroke subdueth? Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.
Who hath the hair, which loosest fastest tieth? Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
Who hath the voice, which soul from senses sunders? Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only with you not miracles are wonders.
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Philip Sidney [1554-1586]
SILVIA From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona"
Who is Silvia? What is she? That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.
Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
CUPID AND CAMPASPE From "Alexander and Campaspe"
Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how); With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple on his chin; All these did my Campaspe win: And last he set her both his eyes - She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me?
John Lyly [1554?-1606]
APOLLO'S SONG From "Midas"
My Daphne's hair is twisted gold, Bright stars apiece her eyes do hold, My Daphne's brow enthrones the Graces, My Daphne's beauty stains all faces, On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry, On Daphne's lip a sweeter berry, Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt, And then no heavenlier warmth is felt, My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres, My Daphne's music charms all ears. Fond am I thus to sing her praise; These glories now are turned to bays.
John Lyly [1554?-1606]
"FAIR IS MY LOVE FOR APRIL'S IN HER FACE" From "Perimedes"
Fair is my love for April's in her face, Her lovely breasts September claims his part, And lordly July in her eyes takes place, But cold December dwelleth in her heart; Blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire, Accurst that month that hindereth my desire.
Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkle both her eyes, As air perfumed with amber is her breath, Like swelling waves her lovely breasts do rise, As earth, her heart, cold, dateth me to death: Aye me, poor man, that on the earth do live, When unkind earth death and despair doth give!
In pomp sits mercy seated in her face, Love 'twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint, Her eyes shine favor, courtesy, and grace, But touch her heart, ah, that is framed of flint! Therefore my harvest in the grass bears grain; The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain.
Robert Greene [1560?-1592]
SAMELA From "Menaphon"
Like to Diana in her summer weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Goes fair Samela; Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, When washed by Arethusa's Fount they lie, Is fair Samela.
As fair Aurora in her morning-gray, Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela; Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move, Shines fair Samela.
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory Of fair Samela; Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams; Her brows bright arches framed of ebony: Thus fair Samela
Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, And Juno in the show of majesty, For she's Samela; Pallas, in wit, - all three, if you well view, For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity Yield to Samela.
Robert Greene [1560?-1592]
DAMELUS' SONG OF HIS DIAPHENIA
Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily, Heigh ho, how I do love thee! I do love thee as my lambs Are beloved of their dams; - How blest were I if thou would'st prove me.
Diaphenia like the spreading roses, That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, Fair sweet, how I do love thee! I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power; For dead, thy breath to life might move me.
Diaphenia like to all things blessed, When all thy praises are expressed, Dear joy, how I do love thee! As the birds do love the spring, Or the bees their careful king: Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
Henry Constable [1562-1613]
MADRIGAL
My love in her attire doth show her wit, 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.
Unknown
ON CHLORIS WALKING IN THE SNOW
I saw fair Chloris walk alone, Whilst feathered rain came softly down, As Jove descended from his tower To court her in a silver shower. The wanton snow flew on her breast Like little birds unto their nest, But, overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thawed into a tear; Thence falling on her garment's hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.
William Strode [1602-1645]
"THERE IS A LADY SWEET AND KIND"
There is a lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart, I know not why, And yet I love her till I die.
Cupid is winged and doth range, Her country so my love doth change: But change she earth, or change she sky, Yet I will love her till I die.
Unknown
CHERRY-RIPE
There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
AMARILLIS
I care not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed: Give me kind Amarillis, The wanton countrymaid. Nature art disdaineth, Her beauty is her own. Her when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go! But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No.
If I love Amarillis, She gives me fruit and flowers: But if we love these ladies, We must give golden showers. Give them gold, that sell love, Give me the Nut-brown lass, Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go: But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No.
These ladies must have pillows, And beds by strangers wrought; Give me a bower of willows, Of moss and leaves unbought, And fresh Amarillis, With milk and honey fed; Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go: But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No!
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA
You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies; What are you when the moon shall rise?
You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?