Arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun,
Call all the winds to make you speedy wings,
And to my fairest Maya see you run
And weep your last while wantonly she sings;
Then if you cannot move her heart to pity,
Let _Oh, alas, ay me_ be all your ditty.

Arise, my thoughts, no more, if you return
Denied of grace which only you desire,
But let the sun your wings to ashes burn
And melt your passions in his quenchless fire;
Yet, if you move fair Maya's heart to pity,
Let smiles and love and kisses be your ditty.

Arise, my thoughts, beyond the highest star
And gently rest you in fair Maya's eye,
For that is fairer than the brightest are;
But, if she frown to see you climb so high,
Couch in her lap, and with a moving ditty,
Of smiles and love and kisses, beg for pity.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Awake, awake! thou heavy sprite
That sleep'st the deadly sleep of sin!
Rise now and walk the ways of light,
'Tis not too late yet to begin.
Seek heaven early, seek it late;
True Faith finds still an open gate.

Get up, get up, thou leaden man!
Thy track, to endless joy or pain,
Yields but the model of a span:
Yet burns out thy life's lamp in vain!
One minute bounds thy bane or bliss;
Then watch and labour while time is.

From HENRY YOULL's _Canzonets to three voices_, 1608.

Awake, sweet Love! 'tis time to rise:
Ph[oe]bus is risen in the east,
Spreading his beams on those fair eyes
Which are enclosed with Nature's rest.
Awake, awake from heavy sleep
Which all thy thoughts in silence keep!

From JOHN WILBYE's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1598.

Ay me, can every rumour
Thus start my lady's humour?
Name ye some galante to her,
Why straight forsooth I woo her.
Then burst[s] she forth in passion
"You men love but for fashion;"
Yet sure I am that no man
Ever so loved woman.
Then alas, Love, be wary,
For women be contrary.

From THOMAS BATESON's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1604.

Ay me, my mistress scorns my love;
I fear she will most cruel prove.
I weep, I sigh, I grieve, I groan;
Yet she regardeth not my moan.
Then, Love, adieu! it fits not me
To weep for her that laughs at thee.

From JOHN DOWLAND's _Third and Last Book of Song