From Henry the Third of France, by Thomas 1678.

Shipman.

SONG.

Life is but short, hope not therein,
Vertue immortall seek for to win.

Who so to vertue doth apply,

Good fame and honour must obtain,

And also live eternally,

For vertuous life this is the gaine.

Life is but short, &c.

Gods promise sure will never faile,
His holy word is a perfect ground,
The forte of vertue, ob man assaile,
Where tresure alway doth abound.

Life is but short..

To thee alone be laud and praise,
Oh Lord, thou art so mercifull,
Who never failed at all essaies,

To aid and help the pitifull.

Life is but short, &c.

From a pleasant Enterlude, entitled. Like will

to Like, quoth the Devil to the Collier. black letter. 1587.

In

SONG.

Hey nony, nony no:

Did Jove see this wanton eye,

Ganemede must waite no longer;

Phoebe heere one night did lye,

Would change her face and looke much younger.

But they shall not so,

Hey nony, nony no,

None but I this lip must owe,

Hey nony, nony no.

From Blurt Master-Constable, or the Spaniards

Night Walke.

1602.

SONG.

When Celadon gave up his heart

A tribute to Astreas eyes,

She smiled to see so fair a prize,

Which beauty had obtained more than art,

But jealousy did seemingly destroy
Her cheerful comfort and her cheerful joy.

Base

Base jealousy, that still dost move
In opposition to all bliss,

And teachest those to do amiss,

Who think by thee they tokens give of love;
But if a lover ever will gain mee,

Let him love much but fly all jealousy.

From the Villain, a Tragedy, by T. Porter,

Esq. 1663.

SONG.

What thing is Love? for sure I am it is a thing, It is a prick, it is a thing, it is a prettie prettie thing, It is a fire, it is a coale, whose flame creeps in at every

hoale.

And as my wits do best devise,

Loves dwelling is in ladies eies.

From Doctor Dodepoll. 1600.

SONG.

Hey dery dery, with a lusty dery,
Hoigh Mistresse Mary, I pray you be mery.

Your pretie person we may compare to Lais,
A morsel for princes and nobler kynges,
In beautie you excell the fayre ladie Thais,
You excede the beautifull Helene in all thyngs,
To behold your face who can be wearie?
Hoigh my Mistresse Mary, I pray you be merie.

VOL. II.

D

The

The haire of your head shyneth as the pure gold,
Your eyes as glasse, and right amiable;
Your smylyng countenance, so lovely to behold;
To us all is moste pleasant and delectable;
Of your commendations who can be wearie?
Hussa, my Mistresse Mary, I pray you be merie.

Your lyps are rudde as the reddy rose,

Your teeth as white as ever was the whales bone;
So cleare, so swete, so fayre, so good, so freshe, so gay;

In all Jurie truely at this day there is none.

With a lusty voyce sing we dery dery.

Hussa, Mistresse Mary, I pray you be merie.

From the Enterlude of the Life and Repentaunce of Maria Magdalene, by Lewis Wager. 1567.

O lustic lovesome lamp of licht,
Your bonynes, your bewtie bricht,
Your staitly stature trym and ticht,
With gesture grave and gude,
Your countenance, your collour cleir,
Your laughing lips, your smyling cheir,
Your properties doss all appeir
My senses to illude.

When I your bewtie doe behold,
I must unto your fairnes fold;

I dow not flie, howbeit I wold,
But bound I must be yours.

For you, sweit hart, I wold forsaik
The Empryce for to be my maik;
Therefore, dear dove, some pitie take,
And save me from the showres.

Dame na ill of my age my dow,
Ile play the yonkeris part to yow,
First try the trueth, then may ye trow,
If I minde to desave.

For gold nor geir ye sall not want,

Sweit hart with me theeres be no scant,
Therefore some grace unto me grant,

For courtesie I crave.

From a verie excellent and delectable Treatise,

intitulit Philotus. Edinburgh.

1612.

SONG.

Weepe, weepe, ye wod-men waile,
Your hands with sorrow wring,
Your master Robin Hood lies deade,
Therefore sigh as you sing.

Here lies his primer and his beades,
His bent bowe, and his arrowes keene,
His good sworde, and his holy crosse.
Now cast on flowers fresh and greene.

And as they fall, shed teares and say,
Wella, wella day, wella, wella day,

Thus cast yee flowers, and sing,
And on to Wakefield take your way.