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NOW WHAT IS LOVE"

"NOW WHAT IS LOVE"

Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, the sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell;
And this is Love, as I hear tell.

Yet what is Love, I prithee, say?
It is a work on holiday,

It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after of the play;
And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain?
It is a sunshine mixed with rain,
It is a toothache or like pain,
It is a game where none hath gain;
The lass saith no, yet would full fain;
And this is Love, as I hear sain.

Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray?
It is a yes, it is a nay,

A pretty kind of sporting fray,

It is a thing will soon away.

Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may;
And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd, 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 shepherd, this is Love, I trow.

Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618]

WOOING SONG

From "Christ's Victory"

LOVE is the blossom where there blows
Every thing that lives or grows:

Love doth make the Heavens to move,
And the Sun doth burn in love:

Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose shadows lions wild,
Softened by love, grow tame and mild:
Love no medicine can appease,

He burns fishes in the seas:

Not all the skill his wounds can stench,
Not all the sea his fire can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leavy coat to wear,

While in his leaves there shrouded lay
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play
And of all love's joyful flame

I the bud and blossom am.

Only bend thy knee to me,

Thy wooing shall thy winning be!:

See, see the flowers that below
Now as fresh as morning blow;

And of all the virgin rose

That as bright Aurora shows;

How they all unleaved die,

Losing their virginity!

Like unto a summer shade,

But now born, and now they fade.

Every thing doth pass away;

There is danger in delay:

Come, come, gather then the rose,

Gather it, or it you lose!
All the sand of Tagus' shore
Into my bosom casts his ore:
All the valleys' swimming corn
To my house is yearly borne:

Rosalind's Madrigal

Every grape of every vine

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Is gladly bruised to make me wine:
While ten thousand kings, as proud,
To carry up my train have bowed,
And a world of ladies send me
In my chambers to attend me:
All the stars in Heaven that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine:
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be.
Giles Fletcher [1549?-1611]

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL

From "Rosalind"

LOVE in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet:

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;

My kisses are his daily feast,

And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;

He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing,

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play,

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;
I'll count your power not worth a pin.
-Alas! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing;

A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries-
Heigh ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind

Not well, nor full nor fasting.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;

If not enjoyed, it sighing cries

Heigh ho!

Samuel Daniel [1562-1619]

Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wished himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me

That I am forsworn for thee:

Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiope were,

And deny himself for Jove,

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Turning mortal for thy love.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

VENUS' RUNAWAY

From "The Hue and Cry After Cupid"

BEAUTIES, have ye seen this toy,
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say?
He is Venus' runaway.

She that will but now discover
Where the wingèd wag doth hover,

Shall to-night receive a kiss,

How or where herself would wish: