A Lover and His Lass

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!