Lucasta [23]
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.
III. Vermilion ball, that's given From lip to lip in Heaven; Loves couches cover-led, Haste, haste, to make her bed.
IV. Dear offspring of pleas'd VENUS, And jollie plumpe SILENUS; Haste, haste, to decke the haire, Of th' only sweetly faire.
V. See! rosie is her bower, Her floore is all this flower; Her bed a rosie nest By a bed of roses prest.
VI. But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah! I have found, I feare; Because her cheekes are neere.
<19.1> Dr. John Wilson was a native of Feversham in Kent, a gentleman of Charles the First's chapel, and chamber- musician to his majesty. For an account of his works, see Burney's HISTORY OF MUSIC, vol. iii. pp. 399-400, or Hawkins' HISTORY OF MUSIC, iii. 57, where a portrait of Wilson, taken from the original painting, will be found. Wood, author of the FASTI and ATHENAE, says that he was in his time, "the best at the lute in all England." Herrick, in his HESPERIDES, 1648, has these lines in reference to Henry Lawes:--
"Then if thy voice commingle with the string, I hear in thee the rare Laniere to sing, OR CURIOUS WILSON."
<19.2> In a MS. copy of the poem contemporary with the author, now before me, this word is omitted.
LOVE CONQUER'D. A SONG. SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES.
I. The childish god of love did sweare Thus: By my awfull bow and quiver, Yon' weeping, kissing, smiling pair, I'le scatter all their vowes i' th' ayr, And their knit imbraces shiver.
II. Up then to th' head with his best art Full of spite and envy blowne, At her constant marble heart, He drawes his swiftest surest dart, Which bounded back, and hit his owne.
III. Now the prince of fires burnes; Flames in the luster of her eyes; Triumphant she, refuses, scornes; He submits, adores and mournes, And is his votresse sacrifice.
IV. Foolish boy! resolve me now What 'tis to sigh and not be heard? He weeping kneel'd, and made a vow: The world shall love as yon' fast two; So on his sing'd wings up he steer'd.
A LOOSE SARABAND. SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES.
I. Ah me! the little tyrant theefe! As once my heart was playing, He snatcht it up and flew away, Laughing at all my praying.
II. Proud of his purchase,<20.1> he surveys And curiously sounds it, And though he sees it full of wounds, Cruel one, still<20.2> he wounds it.
III. And now this heart is all his sport, Which as a ball he boundeth From hand to breast, from breast to lip, And all its<20.3> rest confoundeth.
IV. Then as a top he sets it up, And pitifully whips it; Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine, Then straight againe he strips it.
V. He cover'd it with false reliefe,<20.4> Which gloriously show'd it; And for a morning-cushionet On's mother he bestow'd it.
VI. Each day, with her small brazen stings, A thousand times she rac'd it; But then at night, bright with her gemmes, Once neere her breast she plac'd it.
VII. There warme it gan to throb and bleed; She knew that smart, and grieved; At length this poore condemned heart With these rich drugges repreeved.
VIII. She washt the wound with a fresh teare, Which my LUCASTA dropped, And in the sleave<20.5>-silke of her haire 'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.
IX. She proab'd it with her constancie, And found no rancor nigh it; Only the anger of her eye Had wrought some proud flesh by it.
X. Then prest she narde in ev'ry veine, Which from her kisses trilled; And with the balme heald all its paine, That from her hand distilled.
XI. But yet this heart avoyds me still, Will
III. Vermilion ball, that's given From lip to lip in Heaven; Loves couches cover-led, Haste, haste, to make her bed.
IV. Dear offspring of pleas'd VENUS, And jollie plumpe SILENUS; Haste, haste, to decke the haire, Of th' only sweetly faire.
V. See! rosie is her bower, Her floore is all this flower; Her bed a rosie nest By a bed of roses prest.
VI. But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah! I have found, I feare; Because her cheekes are neere.
<19.1> Dr. John Wilson was a native of Feversham in Kent, a gentleman of Charles the First's chapel, and chamber- musician to his majesty. For an account of his works, see Burney's HISTORY OF MUSIC, vol. iii. pp. 399-400, or Hawkins' HISTORY OF MUSIC, iii. 57, where a portrait of Wilson, taken from the original painting, will be found. Wood, author of the FASTI and ATHENAE, says that he was in his time, "the best at the lute in all England." Herrick, in his HESPERIDES, 1648, has these lines in reference to Henry Lawes:--
"Then if thy voice commingle with the string, I hear in thee the rare Laniere to sing, OR CURIOUS WILSON."
<19.2> In a MS. copy of the poem contemporary with the author, now before me, this word is omitted.
LOVE CONQUER'D. A SONG. SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES.
I. The childish god of love did sweare Thus: By my awfull bow and quiver, Yon' weeping, kissing, smiling pair, I'le scatter all their vowes i' th' ayr, And their knit imbraces shiver.
II. Up then to th' head with his best art Full of spite and envy blowne, At her constant marble heart, He drawes his swiftest surest dart, Which bounded back, and hit his owne.
III. Now the prince of fires burnes; Flames in the luster of her eyes; Triumphant she, refuses, scornes; He submits, adores and mournes, And is his votresse sacrifice.
IV. Foolish boy! resolve me now What 'tis to sigh and not be heard? He weeping kneel'd, and made a vow: The world shall love as yon' fast two; So on his sing'd wings up he steer'd.
A LOOSE SARABAND. SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES.
I. Ah me! the little tyrant theefe! As once my heart was playing, He snatcht it up and flew away, Laughing at all my praying.
II. Proud of his purchase,<20.1> he surveys And curiously sounds it, And though he sees it full of wounds, Cruel one, still<20.2> he wounds it.
III. And now this heart is all his sport, Which as a ball he boundeth From hand to breast, from breast to lip, And all its<20.3> rest confoundeth.
IV. Then as a top he sets it up, And pitifully whips it; Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine, Then straight againe he strips it.
V. He cover'd it with false reliefe,<20.4> Which gloriously show'd it; And for a morning-cushionet On's mother he bestow'd it.
VI. Each day, with her small brazen stings, A thousand times she rac'd it; But then at night, bright with her gemmes, Once neere her breast she plac'd it.
VII. There warme it gan to throb and bleed; She knew that smart, and grieved; At length this poore condemned heart With these rich drugges repreeved.
VIII. She washt the wound with a fresh teare, Which my LUCASTA dropped, And in the sleave<20.5>-silke of her haire 'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.
IX. She proab'd it with her constancie, And found no rancor nigh it; Only the anger of her eye Had wrought some proud flesh by it.
X. Then prest she narde in ev'ry veine, Which from her kisses trilled; And with the balme heald all its paine, That from her hand distilled.
XI. But yet this heart avoyds me still, Will