d-fed dying hope,
A promised bliss, a salveless sore,
An aimless mark, and erring scope.
My daily note shall be therefore,--
Heigh ho, chil love no more.

'Tis like a lamp shining to all,
Whilst in itself it doth decay;
It seems to free whom it doth thrall,
And lead our pathless thoughts astray.
It is the spring of wintered hearts
Parched by the summer's heat before
Faint hope to kindly warmth converts.
My daily note shall be therefore--
Heigh ho, chil love no more.

From RICHARD CARLTON's _Madrigals_, 1601.

When Flora fair the pleasant tidings bringeth
Of summer sweet with herbs and flowers adorned,
The nightingale upon the hawthorn singeth
And Boreas' blasts the birds and beasts have scorned;
When fresh Aurora with her colours painted,
Mingled with spears of gold, the sun appearing,
Delights the hearts that are with love acquainted,
And maying maids have then their time of cheering;
All creatures then with summer are delighted,
The beasts, the birds, the fish with scale of silver;
Then stately dames by lovers are invited
To walk in meads or row upon the river.
I all alone am from these joys exiled,
No summer grows where love yet never smiled.

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Songs of Sundry Natures_, 1589.

When I was otherwise than now I am,
I loved more but skilled not so much
Fair words and smiles could have contented then,
My simple age and ignorance was such:
But at the length experience made me wonder
That hearts and tongues did lodge so far asunder.

As watermen which on the Thames do row,
Look to the east but west keeps on the way;
My sovereign sweet her count'nance settled so,
To feed my hope while she her snares might lay:
And when she saw that I was in her danger,
Good God, how soon she proved then a ranger!

I could not choose but laugh, although too late,
To see great craft decypher'd in a toy;
I love her still, but such conditions hate
Which so profanes my paradise of joy.
Love whets the wits, whose pain is but a pleasure;
A toy, by fits to play withal at leisure.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.

When thou must home to shades of underground,
And there arrived, a new admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
White Iope