Our debut CD entitled “Love! Lust! Longing… Loss – an Elizabethan Romp” is now available on CDBaby.com, iTunes, and wherever digital music is sold!
Fine Knacks for Ladies
Fine knacks for ladies,
Cheap, choice, brave and new;
Good pennyworths, but money cannot move.
I keep a fair, but for the fair to view;
A beggar may be liberal of love.
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true.
Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;
My trifles come, as treasures from my mind.
It is a precious jewel to be plain,
Sometimes in shell, the Orient’s pearls we find.
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain.
Within this pack—pins, points, laces and gloves,
And divers toys fitting a country fair,
But in my heart, where duty serves and loves,
Turtles and twins, Court’s brood, a heav’nly pair.
Happy the heart that thinks of no removes.
(music & lyrics John Dowland, pub. 1600)
performed by Erika Lloyd (Soprano I), Alane Marco (Soprano II), Matt Leisy (Tenor), Garald Farnham (Baritone)
When From My Love
When from my love I looked for love
And kind affections due,
Too well I found her vows to prove
Most faithless and untrue;
For when I did ask her why,
Most sharply did she reply
That she with me did ne’er agree
To love but jestingly.
Mark but the subtle policies that female lovers find,
Who love to fix their constancies
Like feathers in the wind.
They swear, vow and protest
That they love you chiefly best,
Yet by and by they’ll all deny
And say ‘twas but in jest.
(music John Bartlet, pub. 1606)
performed by Matt Leisy (Tenor); Verse 2 with Alane Marco (Soprano I), Erika Lloyd (Soprano II), and Garald Farnham (Baritone & Lute)
Say, Love
Say, Love, if ever thou did’st find
A woman with a constant mind? None but one.
And what should that rare mirror be?
Some goddess or some queen is she;
She, she and only she,
She only queen of love and beauty.
But could thy fiery poison’d dart
At no time touch her spotless heart,
Nor come near?
She is not subject to Love’s bow;
Her eye commands, her heart saith no,
No, no and only no,
One “no” another still doth follow.
How might I that fair wonder know,
That mocks desire with endless “no”?
See the moon?
That ever in one change doth grow,
Yet still the same, and she is so;
So, so and only so,
From heav’n her virtues she doth borrow.
To her then yield thy shafts and bow,
That can command affections so: Love is free;
So are her thoughts that vanquish thee.
There is no queen of love but she,
She, she and only she,
She only queen of love and beauty.
(music & lyrics John Dowland, pub. 1603;
written for Queen Elizabeth I)
performed by Alane Marco (Soprano I), Erika Lloyd (Soprano II), Matt Leisy (Tenor), Garald Farnham (Baritone)
There Is a Ladye
There is a Ladye 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.
Her free behavior, winning looks,
Will make a Lawyer burn his books,
I touched her not, alas not I,
And yet I love her till I die.
Had I her fast betwixt mine arms,
Judge you that think such sports were harms,
Wert any harm? No, no, fie, fie,
For I will 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 will I love her till I die.
(music Thomas Ford, pub. 1607)
performed by Garald Farnham (Baritone & Lute)
It Was a Lover and His Lass
It was a lover and his lass (with a hey, with a ho, and a hey nonny, nonny-no)
That o’er the green corn fields did pass
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing (hey ding a ding a ding),
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Therefore take the present time (with a hey, with a ho, and a hey nonny, nonny-no)
For love is crowned with the prime.
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing (hey ding a ding a ding),
Sweet lovers love the spring.
(music Thomas Morley, pub. 1600; lyrics attrib.
Wm Shakespeare, used in “As You Like It”)
performed by Erika Lloyd (Soprano) & Matt Leisy (Tenor) with Garald Farnham (Lute)
Barb’ry Ellen
In Scarlet Town where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwelling,
Made every youth cry, “Well-a-day!”
Her name was Barb’ry Ellen.
‘Twas in the merry month of May,
When the green buds they were swelling,
Sweet William on his deathbed lay,
For the love of Barb’ry Ellen.
He sent his servant to the town,
To the place where she was dwelling,
“My master bids you come to him,
If your name be Barb’ry Ellen.”
Then slowly, slowly got she up,
And slowly went she nigh him.
And as she drew the curtain back,
“Young man, I think you’re dying.”
“Oh yes, I’m sick, I’m very sick,
And I never will be better,
Until I have the love of one,
The love of Barb’ry Ellen.”
“Oh ken ye not in yonders town,
In the place where you were dwellin’,
You gave a health to the ladies all,
But you slighted Barb’ry Ellen.”
“Oh yes, I ken, I ken it well,
In the place where I was dwellin’,
I gave a health to the ladies all,
But my love to Barb’ry Ellen.”
Then lightly tripped she down the stair;
He trembled like an aspen.
“Tis vain, ‘tis vain, my dear young man,
To hone for Barb’ry Ellen.”
He turned his pale face to the wall,
For death was in him dwellin’.
“Goodbye, kind friends and kinfolk all,
Be kind to Barb’ry Ellen.”
As she did pass the wooded fields,
She heard his death bell knellin’,
And ev’ry stroke, it spoke her name,
“Hard-hearted Barb’ry Ellen.”
Her eyes looked east, her eyes looked west,
She saw his pale corpse coming,
“Oh bearers, bearers, put him down,
That I may look upon him.”
The more she looked, the more she grieved,
Until she burst out crying,
“Oh bearers, bearers, take him off,
For I am now a-dying.”
“Oh mother dear, go make my bed,
Go make it soft and narrow;
Sweet William died for me today.
I will die for him tomorrow.”
“Oh father dear, go dig my grave,
Go dig it deep and narrow;
Sweet William died for love of me,
And I will die for sorrow.”
They buried her in the old church yard,
Sweet William’s grave was nigh her,
And from his heart grew a red, red rose,
And from her heart a briar.
They grew themselves to the old church wall,
‘Twill they couldn’t grow no higher;
They grew ‘twill they tied a true lover’s knot,
The red rose round the briar.
(Appalachian variation of trad. ballad “Barbara Allen,” as collected by John Jacob Niles)
performed by Garald Farnham (Baritone & Lute) & Alane Marco (Mezzo Soprano)
Heigh Ho! For a Husband
There was a maid the other day,
Sighed sore, “God wot!”
“I say all wives might have their way,
Young maidens they might not.
Full eighteen years have pass’d, my friend,
Since I, poor soul, was born,
And if I chance to die a maid,
Apollo is forsworn.”
Heigh-ho! For a husband,
Still this was her song:
“I will have a husband, be he old or young!”
An ancient suitor to her came;
His beard was almost grey.
Tho’ he was old and she was young,
She would no longer stay.
But to her mother went this maid,
And told her by and by,
“Oh, I a husband needs must have,
Oh mother, hear my cry!”
Heigh-ho! For a husband,
Still this was her song:
“I will have a husband, be he old or young!”
“A wedded life, ah! well-a-day. It is a hapless lot!
Young maids may merry, be they gay,
Young wives, alas, may not!
A twelve-month is too long to bear
This sorry yoke, my friend.
Since wives they may not have their will,
‘Tis best to die a maid!”
Heigh-ho! With a husband, What a life lead I,
Out upon a husband, such a husband. Fie, fie, fie, oh fie!
(Music anon ca. 1600, pub. John Gamble; lyrics found in the play “Wit & Mirth,”
refered to in Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing”)
performed by Erika Lloyd (Soprano Solo) with Alane Marco (Soprano II), Matt Leisy (Tenor), Garald Farnham (Baritone & Lute)
Have You Seen But a White Lily Grow?
Have you seen but a white lily grow
Before rude hands had touched it;
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the earth hath smutch’d it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver
Or swan’s down ever?
Or have smelt of the bud of the briar
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, o so soft,
O so sweet, so sweet is she.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love’s world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love’s star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother
Than words that soothe her
And from her arched brows
Such a grace sheds itself thro’ the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good
Of the elements’ strife.
(music attrib. Robert Johnson; lyrics for
v.1 & v.2 anonymous, v. 3 by Ben Jonson)
performed by Matt Leisy (Tenor) with Garald Farnham (Lute)
Rest, Sweet Nymphs
Rest, sweet Nymphs, let golden sleep
Charm your star brighter eyes
Whiles my lute the watch doth keep
With pleasing sympathies.
Lulla lullaby, Lulla lullaby,
Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly,
Let nothing affright ye,
In calm contentments lie.
Dream fair virgins of delight,
And blest Elizian groves;
Whiles the wand’ring shades of night
Resemble your true loves:
Lulla lullaby, Lulla lullaby,
Your Kisses, your blisses,
Send them by your wishes,
Although they be not nigh.
Thus, dear damsels, I do give
Good night and so am gone.
With your hearts’ desires long live
Still joy, and never moan.
Lulla lullaby, Lulla lullaby,
Hath pleas’d you and eas’d you,
And sweet slumber seiz’d you,
And now to bed I hie.
(music Francis Pilkington, pub. 1605)
performed by Erika Lloyd (Soprano) with Garald Farnham (Lute)
Bugle Britches
Oh, she took him by the bridle rein,
And she led him to the stable.
“Here’s fodder and hay for your horse, young man, And me to bed if you’re able.”
She took him by the lily-white hand,
She led him to the table.
“Here’s drink and meat for us to eat,
And me to bed if you’re able.”
She’s up the stairs, her skirts a-flounce,
To make the soldier’s bed.
“Come up, come up, my bonny boy,
I ween you have been fed.”
She’s pulled off her lily-white gown,
She laid it on a table.
“Come bed me quick, my bonny boy,
I’m sure that you are able.”
Oh it’s meat and drink for bonny boys
And then to bed with lasses,
It’s oats and hay and fodder, too, For horses and for asses.
They had not been a-bed a-long,
It was not hours three,
When he did hear the bugle A-blasting merrily.
“Don’t leave, don’t leave, my bonny boy,
The task is not half done.
A soldier ne’er should sheathe his sword
Until the battle’s won.”
“I’ll have to sheathe my dagger,
My codpiece is withdrawn.
I’ll don my bugle britches, I hear the merry horn.”
“Oh when shall we e’er meet again,
And when shall we be wed?
For surely I am all but ruined, And truly would be dead.”
“When mussel shells turn silver bells,
Then we will up and marry.
But now I’m bound to London town,
Nor can I ever tarry.”
(trad. ballad “Trooper & Maid,” Appalachian variation as collected by John Jacob Niles)
performed by Matt Leisy & Garald Farnham (Lute) and Erika Lloyd & Alane Marco
This song was considered too risque for the “gentle sex” and for many years was sung only in the company of men.
Come Again
Come again, sweet love doth now invite
Thy graces that refrain To do me due delight,
To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die
With thee again in sweetest sympathy.
All the day, the sun that lends me shine
By frowns doth cause me pine
And feeds me with delay;
Her smiles, my springs that makes my joy to grow,
Her frowns, the winter of my woe.
All the night my sleeps are full of dreams,
My eyes are full of streams,
My heart takes no delight
To see the fruits and joys that some do find
And mark the storms are me assign’d.
Gentle Love, draw forth thy wounding dart,
Thou canst not pierce her heart;
For I, that to approve
By sighs and tears more hot than are my shafts,
Did tempt, while she for triumph laughs.
(music & lyrics John Dowland, pub. 1597)
performed by Erika Lloyd (Sop I & Solo), Alane Marco (Sop II), Matt Leisy (Tenor & Solo), Garald Farnham (Baritone & Lute)
Humour Say, What Mak’st Thou Here? – a Dialogue
“Humour, say, what mak’st thou here,
In the presence of a queen?”
“Princes hold conceit most dear,
All conceit in humour seen.”
“Thou art a heavy leaden mood.”
“Humour is invention’s food.”
But never humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you.
“O, I am as heavy as earth,
Say then who is Humour now?”
“I am now inclined to mirth,
Humour I as well as thou.”
“Why, then, ‘tis I am drowned in woe?”
“No, no, wit is cherish’d so.”
But never humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you.
“Mirth, then, is drown’d in Sorrow’s brim,
O, in sorrow all things sleep.”
“No, no, fool, the lightest things swim.
Heavy things sink to the deep.”
“In her presence, all things smile,”
“Humour frolic then awhile.”
But never humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you.
(music & lyrics John Dowland, pub. 1600;
written for Queen Elizabeth I)
dialogue performed by Alane Marco (Sop I) and Garald Farnham (Baritone & Lute), Chorus with Erika Lloyd (Sop II), Matt Leisy (Tenor)
Toss the Pot
We take no thought, we have no care
For still we spend, and never spare,
Till of all money our purse is bare,
We ever toss the pot.
Toss the pot, toss the pot, Let us be merry
And drink till our cheeks be as red as a cherry.
We drink, carouse with heart most free,
A hearty draught I drink to thee;
Then fill the pot again to me,
And ever toss the pot.
Toss the pot, toss the pot, Let us be merry
And drink till our cheeks be as red as a cherry.
And when our money is all spent,
Then sell our goods, and spend our rent,
Or drink it up with one consent,
And ever toss the pot.
Toss the pot, toss the pot, Let us be merry
And drink till our cheeks be as red as a cherry.
Let us conclude as we began,
And toss the pot from man to man,
And drink as much now as we can,
And ever toss the pot.
Toss the pot, toss the pot, Let us be merry
And drink till our cheeks be as red as a cherry.
(attrib. Thomas Ravenscroft, pub. 1614)
performed by Garald Farnham (Baritone & Lute), Erika Lloyd (Soprano I), Alane Marco (Soprano II), Matt Leisy (Tenor)
Recorded live at Eastern Carolina University School of Music
Remaining lyrics on this page are to songs in the full length concert version of “Love! Lust! Longing…. Loss” that are not included on the CD.
So Quick, So Hot, So Mad
So quick, so hot, so mad is thy fond suit,
So rude, so tedious grown in urging me,
That fain I would with loss make thy tongue mute,
And yield some little grace to quiet thee.
An hour with thee I care not to converse:
For I would not be counted too perverse.†
But roofs too hot would prove for all men fire,
And hills too high for my unused pace;
The grove is charg’d with thorns & the bold briar;
Grey snakes the meadows shroud in every place:
A yellow frog, alas, will fright me so
As I should start and tremble as I go.
Since then I can on earth no fit room find,
In heav’n I am resolv’d with you to meet;
Till then, for Hope’s sweet sake,
rest your tired mind
And not so much as see me in the street.
A heavenly meeting one day we shall have,
But never, as you dream, in bed, or grave.
(music & lyrics Thomas Campion, pub. 1618;
† “For I would not be counted too ‘averse to love.’”)
If She Forsake Me
If she forsake me, I must die; Shall I tell her so?
Alas, then straight will she reply, “No, no, no, no.”
If I disclose my desperate state,
She will but make sport thereat
And more unrelenting grow.
What heart can long such pains abide?
Fie upon this love!
I would adventure far and wide If it would remove,
But love will still my steps pursue.
I cannot his ways eschew,
Thus still helpless hopes I prove.
I do my love in lines commend, But alas in vain;
The costly gifts that I do send, She returns again.
Thus still is my despair procured
And her malice more assured;
Then come, Death, and end my pain.
(music Philip Rosseter, pub. 1601)
If My Complaints
If my complaints could passions move,
Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong;
My passions were enough to prove,
That my despairs had govern’d me too long.
O Love, I live and die in thee,
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks;
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me,
My heart for thy unkindness breaks.
Yet thou dost hope when I despair
And while I hope, thou mak’st me hope in vain.
Thou say’st thou canst my harms repair,
Yet for redress, thou let’st me still complain.
Can Love be rich, and yet I want?
Is Love my judge, and yet I am condemn’d?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant;
Thou made a God, and yet thy power contemn’d.
That I do live, it is thy power;
That I desire, it is thy worth.
If Love doth make men’s lives too sour,
Let me not love, nor live henceforth.
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith,
That you that of my fall may hearers be
May here despair, which truly saith:
I was more true to Love than Love to me.
(music & lyrics John Dowland, pub. 1597)
When To Her Lute Corrina Sings
When to her lute Corrina sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear
As any challeng’d echo clear.
But when she doth of mourning speak,
E’en with her sighs,
Her sighs the strings do break.
And as her lute doth live or die;
Led by her passion, so must I.
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring.
But if she doth of sorrow speak,
E’en from my heart,
My heart the strings do break.
(music & lyrics Thomas Campion, pub. 1601)
Come Live With Me and Be My Love
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses
And twine a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
(music William Corkine; pub. 1612;
lyrics Christopher Marlowe ca. 1595,
written to Sir Walter Raleigh;
portions used by Shakespeare in “Merry Wives”)
About Our Music [Notes from the “Love! Lust! Longing… Loss” program book]
Today, the music world labels the songs we perform “Early Music,” but for people living during the reign of Elizabeth I in England, this was “pop” music. These songs were sung in private homes, banquet halls, theatres, pubs and on street corners. If a composer were lucky enough, he might receive a position at court where his songs would be performed for the Queen.
People often ask us if we sing madrigals. We don’t – we sing lute songs. What’s the difference? Lute songs were published with a melody line and notated lute accompaniment, some with four-part vocal arrangements. In a lute song, the melody line is always the most important. The madrigal, by comparison, is always written for multiple voice parts and is always sung a cappella (without instrumental accompaniment). The vocal parts are fully polyphonic – a madrigal cannot be sung as a solo. With few exceptions, the English composers of the time specialized in one form or the other.
Our repertoire also includes popular ballads of the era. These songs were not published in printed books, but have only been discovered in handwritten manuscript form, sometimes with a lute part notated. It is impossible to know for sure who originated the popular ballads of the day, since they were passed orally from musician to musician. A minstrel in 1600 would copy any new song he heard into his “fake book.” He might add his own bass line or harmony, or write a new lyric to put his own stamp on it. This led to a great number of regional variations, such as the Appalachian versions you’ll hear today, brought by English and Scottish immigrants to the New World.
Theatre songs, i.e. songs written for theatrical productions, are also only found in handwritten manuscripts. Robert Johnson, who composed for Shakespeare’s company, probably collaborated with Shakespeare on some and adapted existing songs for others. (His songs were later appropriated for use by other playwrights.) Most true “theatre songs” are different from the other forms in that they are more like monologues – no verses, no repeated choruses. They serve the same dramatic purpose as recitatives and arias in opera.
The late Robert Spencer, a 20th century lute song scholar, rescued many English lute songs from oblivion. He believed strongly that to the Renaissance mind, the poetry was most important, the music second, and the singer last. We believe in performing this music with an emphasis on the stories and characters contained in the lyrics, as Renaissance-era minstrels and buskers would have done to attract and keep their audiences. Thus, we may take occasional liberties with “historic performance practice” in order to make clear the meaning of the lyrics.
If listeners in 1600 liked a performance, they would respond with the word “Huzzah!” If they didn’t like it, they’d shout “Fie!” We encourage you to express yourself in this manner, and to laugh out loud when you find something funny. Of course, we’ll accept plain old applause as well!
—Garald Farnham, Artistic Director
TUDOR TALES
Poetry
Humour Say
Humour say what mak’st thou here, in the presence of a queen,
Princes hold conceit most dear, all conceit in humour seen.
Thou art a heavy leaden mood, Humour is Invention’s food.
But never humour yet was true, But that which only pleaseth you.
O, I am as heavy as earth, say then who is Humour now.
I am now inclined to mirth, Humour I as well as thou.
Why then ‘tis I am drowned in woe. No, no, wit is cherish’d so.
But never humour …
Mirth then is drown’d in Sorrow’s brim, O, in sorrow all things sleep,
No, no fool the light’st things swim, Heavy things sink to the deep
In her presence all things smile, Humour frolic then awhile.
But never humour …
Come Away, Come Sweet Love
Come away, come sweet love, the golden morning breaks.
All the earth all the air, of love and pleasure speaks:
Teach thine arms then to embrace and sweet rosy lips to kiss,
And mix our souls in mutual bliss.
Eyes were made for beauty’s grace viewing, rueing love’s long pain
Procur’d by beauty’s rude disdain.
Come away, come sweet love, the golden morning wastes,
While the sun from his sphere, his fiery arrows casts:
Making all the shadows fly, playing, staying in the grove
To entertain the stealth of love.
Thither sweet love let us hie, flying, dying in desire,
Wing’d with sweet hopes and heav’nly fire.
Come away, come sweet love, do not in vain adorn
Beauty’s grace, that should rise, like to the naked morn:
Lilies on the river’s side, and fair Cyprian flow’rs new blown,
Desire no beauties but their own.
Ornament is nurse of pride, Pleasure, measure love’s delight:
Haste then sweet love our wished flight.
Dear If You Changed
Dear, if you change, I’ll never choose again.
Sweet, if you shrink, I’ll never think of love.
Fair, if you fail, I’ll judge all beauty vain.
Wise, if too weak, more wits I’ll never prove.
Dear, sweet, fair, wise, change, shrink, nor be not weak:
And, on my faith, my faith shall never break.
Earth with her flow’rs shall sooner heaven adorn,
Heav’n her bright stars through earth’s dim globe shall move,
Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flame be born,
Air made to shine as black as hell shall prove:
Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transform’d to view,
Ere I prove false to faith, or strange to you.
If My Complaints
If my complaints could pas-si-ons move,
Or make love see wherein I suffer wrong:
My passions were enough to prove,
That my despairs had governed me too long.
O love, I live and die in thee,
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks:
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me,
My heart for thy unkindness breaks:
Yet thou dost hope when I despair,
And when I hope, thou mak’st me hope in vain.
Thou say’st thou canst my harms repair,
Yet for redress, thou let’st me still complain.
Can love be rich, and yet I want?
Is love my judge, and yet I am condemned?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant:
Thou made a God, and yet thy power contemned.
That I do live, it is thy power:
That I desire it is thy worth:
If love doth make men’s lives too sour,
Let me not love, nor live henceforth.
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith,
That you that of my fall may hearers be
May here despair, which truly saith,
I was more true to love than love to me.
What Poor Astronomers Are They
What poor astronomers are they, take women’s eyes for stars
And set their thoughts in battle ray to fight such idle wars,
When in the end they shall approve,
‘tis but a jest drawn out of love.
And love itself is but a jest devised by idle heads,
To catch young fancies in the nest and lay in fool’s beds.
That being hatcht in beauties eyes they may be fledg’d ere they be wise.
But yet it is a sport to see how wit will run on wheels,
While wit cannot persuaded be with that which reason feels:
That women’s eyes and stars are odd, and Love is but a fained god.
But such as will run made with will, I cannot clear their sight:
But leave them to their study still to look where is no light.
Till time too late we make them try, they study false Astronomy.
Fine Knacks For Ladies
Fine knacks for ladies, cheap choice brave and new,
Good Pennyworths but money cannot move,
I keep a fair but for the fair to view,
A beggar may be liberal of love,
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true.
Great gifts are guile and look for gifts again
My trifles come, as treasures from my mind,
It is a precious jewel to be plain,
Sometimes in shell the Orient’s pearls we find,
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain.
Within this pack pins points laces and gloves,
And divers toys fitting a country fair,
But in my heart where duty serves and loves,
Turtles and twins, court’s brood, a heav’nly pair,
Happy the heart that thinks of no removes.
Sweet Cupid, Ripen Her Desire
Sweet Cupid, ripen her desire, thy joyful harvest may begin,
If age approach a little nigher twill be too late to get it in.
Cold Winter storms lay standing corn, which once to ripe will never rise,
And lovers wish themselves unborn, when all their joys lie in their eyes.
Then sweet, let us embrace and kiss, shall beauty shale upon the ground?
If age bereave us of this bliss, then will no more such sport be found.
I Care Not For These Ladies
I care not for these ladies that must be woo’d and pray’d;
Give me kind Amaryllis, the wanton country maid.
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 Amaryllis, she gives me fruit and flow’rs
But if we love these ladies, we must give golden show’rs,
Give them gold that sell love; give me the nut-brown lass,
Who when we …
These Ladies must have pillows, and beds by strangers wrought,
Give me a bow’r of willows, of moss and leaves unbought,
And fresh Amaryllis with milk and honey fed,
Who when we …
Shall I Come Sweet Love
Shall I come sweet Love to thee, When the ev’ning beams are set?
Shall I not excluded be? Will you find no fained let?
Let me not for pity more, tell the long hours at your door.
Who can tell what thief or foe, In the covert of the night,
For his prey will work my woe; Or through wicked foul despite:
So may I die unredressed, ere my long love be possessed.
But to let such dangers pass, Which a lovers thoughts disdain:
‘Tis enough in such a place to attend loves joys in vain.
Do not mock me in thy bed, while these cold nights freeze me dead.
It Fell On A Summer’s Day
It fell on a summer’s day while sweet Bessy sleeping lay
In her bow’r, on her bed, light with curtains shadowed,
Jamie came, she him spies, Op‘ning half her heavy eyes.
Jamie stole in through the door, she lay slumb’ring as before.
Softly to her he drew near; she heard him, yet would not hear.
Bessy vowed not to speak; he resolved that vow to break.
First a soft kiss he doth take; she lay still and would not wake.
Then his hands learn’d to woo; she dreamt not what he would do,
But still slept, while he smiled to see love by sleep beguiled.
Jamie then began to play; Bessy as one buried lay.
Gladly still through this sleight deceived in her own deceit
And since this trance begun, she sleeps ev‘ry afternoon.
All Looks Be Pale
All looks be pale, hearts cold as stone,
For Holly now is dead and gone,
Holly in whose sight, most sweet sight,
All the earth late took delight.
Ev’ry eye weep with me
Joys drowned in tears must be.
His iv’ry skin, his comely hair,
His rosie cheeks so dear, and fair:
Eyes that once did grace his bright face,
Now in him all want their place
Eyes and hearts weep with me
For who so kind as he.
His youth was like an April flowre,
Adorn’d with beauty, love and powre,
Glory strow’d his way, whose wreaths gay
Now are all turn’d to decay.
Then again weep with me
Since more him none shall see.
No more may his wisht sight return.
His golden Lamp no more can burn;
Quencht is all his flame, his hop’t fame
Now hath left him nought but name.
For him all weep with me
Since more him none shall see.
If She Forsake Me
If she forsake me I must die, Shall I tell her so,
Alas then straight will she reply, No, no, no, no, no.
If I disclose my desp’rate state
She will but make sport thereat
And more unrelenting grow.
What heart can long such pains abide, Fie, upon this love
I would adventure far and wide, if it would remove,
But Love will still my steps pursue
I cannot his ways eschew,
Thus still helpless hopes I prove.
I do my love in lines commend, but alas in vain,
The costly gifts that I do send, she returns again.
Thus still is my despair procur’d,
And her malice more assur’d,
Then come Death and end my pain.
Now What Is Love
Now what is Love, I pray thee tell? It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasures and repentance dwell. It is perhaps that sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell. And this is love as I hear tell.
Now what is Love, I pray thee fain? It is a sunshine mixed with rain.
It is a gentle pleasing pain; A flower that dies and springs again.
It is a No that would full fain. And this is love as I hear sayen.
Now what is Love, I pray thee show? A thing that creeps, it cannot go;
A prize that passeth to and fro; A thing for one, a thing for moe.
And he that proves shall find it so. And this is Love, as I well know.
Rest Sweet Nymphs
Rest sweet Nymphs let golden sleep, charm your star brighter eyes,
Whiles my lute the watch doth keep with pleasing sympathies,
Lul-la, lul-la-by,
Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, let nothing affright ye,
In calm contentments lie.
Dream fair virgins of delight, and blest Elisian groves:
Whiles the wand’ring shades of night, resemble your true loves:
Lul-la, lul-la-by,
Your kisses your blisses send them by your wishes
Although they be not nigh.
Thus fair damzels I do give good night and so am gone:
With your hearts desires long live still joy, and never moan:
Lul-la, lul-la-by,
Hath pleas’d you and eas’d you, and sweet slumber seiz’d you,
And now to bed I hie.
Whether Men Do Laugh or Weep
Whether men do laugh or weep, whether they do wake or sleep
Whether they die young or old, whether they feel heat or cold,
There is underneath the sun, nothing in true earnest done.
All our pride is but a jest none are worst, and none are best,
Grief, and joy, and hope, and fear, play their pageants everywhere,
Vain opinion all doth sway, and the world is but a play.
Pow’rs above in clouds do sit, mocking our poor apish wit,
That so lamely with such state, their high glory imitate.
No ill can be felt but pain, and that happy men disdain.
Tell Me, O Love
Shepherd: Tell me O Love, when shall it be
That thy fair eyes shall shine on me?
When nothing now reviveth.
Nymph: I pray thee Shepherd leave thy fears,
Drown not thy heart and eyes with tears,
Such sighs my sense depriveth.
S: Alas sweet Nymph, I cannot choose
Since thou estranged lives from me,
N: O do not me for that accuse,
My Love, my life doth live in thee,
Alas, what joy is in such love that ever lives apart
And never other comforts prove, but cares that kill the heart?
O let me die, and so will I,
Yet stay sweet Love and sing this song with me
Time brings to pass what love thinks could not be.
When From My Love
When from my love I looked for love and kind affections due,
Too well I found her vows to prove most faithless and untrue.
For when I did ask her why, most sharply she did reply
That she with me did ne’er agree to love but jestingly.
Mark but the subtle policies that female lovers find,
Who love to fix their constancies like feathers in the wind.
Though they swear, vow and protest that they love you chiefly best,
Yet by and by they’ll all deny and say ‘twas but in jest.
O Mistress Mine
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting
Journey’s end in lovers meeting
Ev’ry wise man’s son doth know.
O what is love? ‘Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
It Was a Lover And His Lass
It was a lover and his lass,
with a haye, with a hoe and a haye non-i-no.
That o’er the green corn fields did pass
In spring time, the only pretty ring time
When birds do sing, haye ding-a-ding-a-ding
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the Acres of the rye,
with a haye, with a hoe and a haye non-i-no.
These pretty country folk would lie,
In spring time …
Then pretty lovers take the time,
with a haye, with a hoe and a haye non-i-no.
For love is crowned with the prime,
In spring time …
A Lover and His Lass – audio recording – Elizabeth Henreckson Farnum – soprano, Garald Farnham – baritone and lutes, Steve McAlister – engineer, recorded at Baby Monster Studios, NYC – 1989 – the tape was digitalized using a Memorex by Jan Dejnožka in November 2023.
Tell Me Dearest – words by Beaumont and Fletcher – music Robert Johnson (c 1582 – 1633)
Tell me dearest; what is love?
‘Tis a light’ning from above: ‘tis an arrow, ‘tis a fire,
‘Tis a boy we call desire.
‘Tis a grave gave to have those poor fools that long to prove.
Tell me more, are women true?
Yes, some are, and some as you: some are fickle, some are strange,
Since you men taught first to change.
And say, troth, be my loath, all do love to love anew.
Tell me more, can women grieve?
Yes, and sicken sore, but live: and be wise, too, and delay
When they see men wise as they.
Then I see, faith will be never till they both agree.
If She Forsake Me – Philip Rosseter 1601
If she forsake me I must die, Shall I tell her so,
Alas then straight will she reply, No, no, no, no, no.
If I disclose my desp’rate state
She will but make sport thereat
And more unrelenting grow.
What heart can long such pains abide, Fie, upon this love
I would adventure far and wide, if it would remove,
But Love will still my steps pursue
I cannot his ways eschew,
Thus still helpless hopes I prove.
I do my love in lines commend, but alas in vain,
The costly gifts that I do send, she returns again.
Thus still is my despair procur’d,
And her malice more assur’d,
Then come Death and end my pain.
So, So, Leave Off – words by John Donne – music by Alfonso Ferrabosco 1609
So, so, leave off, this last lamenting kiss, which sucks two souls and vapors both away,
Turn thou ghost that way, and let me turn this, and let ourselves benight our happy day.
We ask none leave to love, nor will we owe any so cheap a death as saying Go!
Go, go! And if that word have not quite killed thee, ease me with death by bidding me go to:
O, if it have let my word work on me, and a just office on a murderer do.
Except it be to late to kill me so, being double dead, going and bidding go.
Humour Say, What Mak’st Thou Here? – a Dialogue – John Dowland 1600
“Humour, say, what mak’st thou here,
In the presence of a queen?”
“Princes hold conceit most dear,
All conceit in humour seen.”
“Thou art a heavy leaden mood.”
“Humour is invention’s food.”
But never humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you.
“O, I am as heavy as earth,
Say then who is Humour now?”
“I am now inclined to mirth,
Humour I as well as thou.”
“Why, then, ‘tis I am drowned in woe?”
“No, no, wit is cherish’d so.”
But never humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you.
“Mirth, then, is drown’d in Sorrow’s brim,
O, in sorrow all things sleep.”
“No, no, fool, the lightest things swim.
Heavy things sink to the deep.”
“In her presence, all things smile,”
“Humour frolic then awhile.”
But never humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you.
Hark, Hark the Lark – words by Shakespeare – music Robert Johnson (c 1582 – 1633)
Hark! Hark! the Lark at heaven’s gate sings and Phoebus ‘gins to rise.
The winking Mary buds begin to ope their golden eyes:
With everything that pretty is, my lady sweet arise.
There Is None, O None but You – Thomas Campion – 1613
There is none, o none but you, that from me estrange your sight,
Whom mine eyes affect to view or chained ears hear with delight.
Other beauties others move, in you I all graces find:
Such is the effect of love, to make them happy that are kind.
Sweet afford me all your sight, that surveying all your looks,
Endless volumes I may write, and fill the world with envied books.
Which when after ages view, all shall wonder, and despair,
Women to find man so true, or man a woman half so fair.
Come Live with Me and Be My Love – words by Christopher Marlowe – William Corkine 1612
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
It Fell on a Summer’s Day – Thomas Campion 1601
It fell on a summer’s day while sweet Bessy sleeping lay
In her bow’r, on her bed, light with curtains shadowed,
Jamie came, she him spies, Op‘ning half her heavy eyes.
Jamie stole in through the door, she lay slumb’ring as before.
Softly to her he drew near; she heard him, yet would not hear.
Bessy vowed not to speak; he resolved that vow to break.
First a soft kiss he doth take; she lay still and would not wake.
Then his hands learn’d to woo; she dreamt not what he would do,
But still slept, while he smiled to see love by sleep beguiled.
Jamie then began to play; Bessy as one buried lay.
Gladly still through this sleight deceived in her own deceit
And since this trance begun, she sleeps ev‘ry afternoon.
Amarilli Mia Bella – words by Giovanni Battista Guarini – music Guilio Caccini 1601
Amarilli mia bella, non credi, o del mio cor dolce desiro,
D’esser tu l’amor mio?
Credilo pur, e se timor t’assale, Prendi questo mio strale,
Aprimi’l petto, è vedrai scritto il core:
Amarilli, amarilli, amarilli è’l mio amore,
Credilo pur, e se timor t’assale, Prendi questo mio strale,
Aprimi’l petto, è vedrai scritto il core:
Amarilli, amarilli, amarilli è’l mio amore.
Sweet Kate – Robert Jones 1609
Sweet Kate of late ran away and left me plaining.
Abide! I cried, or I die with thy disdaining.
Te he he! Quoth she, gladly would I see any man to die with loving.
Never any yet died of such a fit: neither have I fear of proving.
Unkind I find thy delight is in tormenting,
Abide! I cried, or I die with thy consenting.
Te he he! Quoth she, make no fool of me! Men I know have oaths of pleasure.
But their hopes attained, they bewray they feigned, and their oaths are kept at leisure.
Her words like swords cut my sorry heart in sunder,
Her flouts with doubts kept my hearts affections under.
Te he he! Quoth she, what a fool is he, stands in awe of once denying!
‘Cause I had enough to become more rough; so I did O happy trying.
Come Again – John Dowland 1597
Come again, sweet love doth now invite
Thy graces that refrain to do me due delight,
To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die
With thee again in sweetest sympathy.
All the day, the sun that lends me shine
By frowns doth cause me pine
And feeds me with delay;
Her smiles, my springs that makes my joy to grow,
Her frowns, the winter of my woe.
Gentle Love, draw forth thy wounding dart,
Thou canst not pierce her heart;
For I, that to approve
By sighs and tears more hot than are thy shafts,
Did tempt, while she for triumph laughs.
It Was a Lover and His Lass – words by Shakespeare – music Thomas Morley 1600
It was a lover and his lass (with a hey, with a ho, and a hey nonny, nonny-no)
That o’er the green corn fields did pass
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing (hey ding a ding a ding),
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye (with a hey, with a ho, and a hey nonny, nonny-no)
These pretty country folk would lie.
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing (hey ding a ding a ding),
Sweet lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time (with a hey, with a ho, and a hey nonny, nonny-no)
For love is crowned with the prime.
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing (hey ding a ding a ding),
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Watkins Ale – words and music Anonymous – Weld Lute Book
There was a maid this other day, and she would needs go forth and play,
And as she walked, she sighed and said: “I am afraid to die a maid.”
With that beheard a lad, what talk this maiden had, whereof he was full glad and did not spare
To say: “Fair maid, I pray whither go you to play?” “Good sir,” then did she say, “What do you care.”
“For I will, without fail maiden give you Watkins Ale.”
“Watkins Ale good sir,” quoth she, “what is that I pray you tell me.”
“‘Tis sweeter far than sugar fine and pleasanter than muscadine
And if you please fair maid to stay a little while with me to play
I will give you the same Watkins Ale called by name or else I were to blame in truth fair maid.”
“Good sir,” quoth she again, “if you will take the pain I will it not refrain nor be dismayed.”
He took this maiden then aside and led her where she was not spied,
And told her many a pretty tale and gave her well of Watkins Ale.
When he had done to her his will they talked, but what it shall not skill
At last quoth she, “Saving your tale give me some more of Watkins Ale.
Or else I will not stay for I must needs away, my mother bade me play the time is past
Therefore good sir,” quoth she, “If you have done with me.” “Nay soft, fair maid,” quoth he again at last.
“Let us talk a little while,” with that the maid began to smile,
And said, “good sir, full well I know your ale, I see runs very low.”
This young man then, being so blamed did blush as one being ashamed
He took her by the middle small and gave her more of Watkins Ale.
And said, “Fair maid I pray when you go forth to play remember what I say walk not alone.”
“Good sir,” quoth she again. “I thank you for your pain for fear of further stain I will be gone.”
“Farewell maid,” then quoth he. “Adieu good sir,” again quoth she.
Thus, they parted at last till thrice three months had gone and past.
This maiden then fell very sick her maiden head began to kick
Her color waxed wane and pale with talking much of Watkins Ale.
I wish all maiden’s coy that hear this pretty toy wherein most women joy how they do sport.
For surely Watkins Ale and if it be not stale with turn them to some bale as doth report.
New Ale will make their bellies bown as trial by this fame is known,
This proverb hath been taught in schools. It is no jesting with edged tools.
Good maids and wives, I pardon crave and lack not that which you would have
To blush it is a woman’s grace and well becometh a maiden’s face.
For women will refuse the thing that they would choose ‘cause men should them accuse of thinking ill.
Cat will after kind all winkers are not blind fair maids you know my mind say what you will.
When you drink Ale beware the toast for therein lay the danger most.
If any here offended be then blame the author blame not me.
O Mistress Mine – words by Shakespeare – Thomas Morley 1599
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting
Journey’s end in lovers meeting
Ev’ry wise man’s son doth know.
O what is love? ‘Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
Jack and Joan – Thomas Campion 1613
Jack and Joan they think no ill, but loving live and merry still,
Do their week days work and pray devoutly on the holy day,
Skip and trip it on the green, and help to choose the Summer Queen.
Lash out a country feast their silver penny with the best.
Can they judge of nappy ale and tell at large a winter’s tale:
Climb up to the apple loft, and turn the crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the fathers joy and little Tom the mother’s boy:
All their pleasure is content and care to pay the yearly rent.
Now you courtly dames and knights, that only study strange delights,
Though you scorn the home-spun gray, and revel in your rich array,
Though your tongues dissemble deep, and can your heads from danger keep;
Yet for all your pomp and train, securer lives the silly swain.
In te Domine speravi – Josquin dez Prez (c1440-1521)
In te Domine speravi
Per trovar pietà in eterno,
Ma in un tristo e oscuro inferno
Fui, et frustra laboravi.
Rotto e al vento ogni speranza,
Veggio il ciel voltarmi in pianto,
Suspir, lachrime me avanza
Del mio tristo sperar tanto.
Fui ferito, se non quanto
Tribulando ad te clamavi.
In te Domine speravi.
Full Fathom Five – words by Shakespeare – music Robert Johnson (c 1582 – 1633)
Full fathom five thy father lies, of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes, nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea change into something rich and strange:
Sea nymphs hourly ring his knell, hark! now I hear them, ding, dong, bell.
If My Complaints – John Dowland 1597
If my complaints could passions move,
Or make love see wherein I suffer wrong:
My passions were enough to prove,
That my despairs had governed me too long.
O love, I live and die in thee,
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks:
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me,
My heart for thy unkindness breaks:
Yet thou dost hope when I despair,
And when I hope, thou mak’st me hope in vain.
Thou say’st thou canst my harms repair,
Yet for redress, thou let’st me still complain.
Can love be rich, and yet I want?
Is love my judge, and yet I am condemned?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant:
Thou made a God, and yet thy power contemned.
That I do live, it is thy power:
That I desire it is thy worth:
If love doth make men’s lives too sour,
Let me not love, nor live henceforth.
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith,
That you that of my fall may hearers be
May here despair, which truly saith,
I was more true to love than love to me.
Mourons Tirsis – Antoine Boësset 1632
Mouron Tirsis. Vivons Silvie. Aymonsnous donc. O douce voix!
C’est vivre et mourir a la fois. La mort en fait aymer la vie.
Tout ce qui void le jour ne vit point s’il ne meurt, s’il ne meurt d’amour.
Tout ce qui void le jour ne vit point s’il ne meurt, s’il ne meurt d’amour.
J’en crains le mal. Et moy je l’ayme. C’est un grand feu. C’et une mer.
Il est moins doux qu’il n’est amer. En toute chose il est extresme.
Tout ce qui …
Aymons Tirsis. Aymons Silvie. Je l’ay juré. Je l’ay promis.
La foy ne craint point d’ennemis. L’amour est plus grand que l’en vive.
Tout ce qui …
The Willow Song – words and music Anonymous 1584 manuscript
The poor soul sat sighing by sycamore tree, sing all a green willow;
With his hand in his bosom, and his head upon his knee.
Sing willow, willow, willow, willow, sing willow, willow, willow, willow shall be my garland.
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans, sing all a green willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones.
Sing willow, willow, willow, willow, sing willow, willow, willow, willow shall be my garland.
Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow, sing all a green willow shall be my garland.
Let nobody blame him, his scorns I approve, sing all a green willow;
He was born to be false, and I to die of love.
Sing willow, willow, willow, willow, sing willow, willow, willow, willow shall be my garland.
I called my Love false Love: but what said he then, sing all a green willow;
If you court more women, I’ll couch with more men.
Sing willow, willow, willow, willow, sing willow, willow, willow, willow shall be my garland.
Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow, sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Heigh Ho! For a Husband – words and music anonymous ca. 1600 – published by John Gamble
There was a maid this other day,
Sighed sore, “God wot!”
“I say all wives might have their way,
Young maidens they might not.
Full eighteen years have pass’d, my friend,
Since I, poor soul, was born,
And if I chance to die a maid,
Apollo is forsworn.”
Heigh-ho! For a husband,
Still this was her song:
“I will have a husband, be he old or young!”
An ancient suitor to her came;
His beard was almost grey.
Tho’ he was old and she was young,
She would no longer stay.
But to her mother went this maid,
And told her by and by,
“Oh, I a husband needs must have,
Oh mother, hear my cry!”
Heigh-ho! For a husband,
Still this was her song:
“I will have a husband, be he old or young!”
“A wedded life, ah! well-a-day. It is a hapless lot!
Young maids may merry, be they gay,
Young wives, alas, may not!
A twelve-month is too long to bear
This sorry yoke, my friend.
Since wives they may not have their will,
‘Tis best to die a maid!”
Heigh-ho! With a husband, What a life lead I,
Out upon a husband, such a husband. Fie, fie, fie, oh fie!
