Tudor and Stuart Love Songs — Sir Philip Sidney
A DITTY.
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
Sir Philip Sidney.
LOVE IS DEAD.
Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread;
For Love is dead: All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain: Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And Faith fair scorn doth gain.
From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us!
Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said That Love is dead?
His death-bed, peacock's folly;
His winding-sheet is shame;
His will, false-seeming holy;
His sole executor, blame.
From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us!
Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead;
Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart;
Which epitaph containeth, _Her eyes were once his dart_.
From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us!
Alas, I lie; rage hath this error bred;
Love is not dead;
Love is not dead, but sleepeth In his unmatched mind, Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due deserts she find: Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a franzy, Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us!
Sir Philip Sidney.
HE THAT LOVES.
He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny.
Doth she chide thee?
'tis to show it That thy coldness makes her do it.
Is she silent, is she mute?
Silence fully grants thy suit.
Doth she pout and leave the room?
Then she goes to bid thee come.
Is she sick?
why then be sure She invites thee to the cure.
Doth she cross thy suit with "No"?
Tush!
she loves to hear thee woo.
Doth she call the faith of men In question?
nay, she loves thee then, And if e'er she makes a blot, She's lost if that thou hit'st her not.
He that after ten denials Doth attempt no further trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.
Sir Philip Sidney.
