I then shall have best time for my complaining.

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

Each day of thine, sweet month of May,
Love makes a solemn holyday:
I will perform like duty,
Since thou resemblest every way
Astraea, Queen of Beauty.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Every dame affects good fame, whate'er her doings be,
But true praise is Virtue's bays, which none may wear but she.
Borrowed guise fits not the wise, a simple look is best;
Native grace becomes a face though ne'er so rudely drest.
Now such new-found toys are sold these women to disguise,
That before the year grows old the newest fashion dies.

Dames of yore contended more in goodness to exceed,
Than in pride to be envied for that which least they need.
Little lawn then serve[d] the Pawn, if Pawn at all there were;
Homespun thread and household bread then held out all the year.
But th' attires of women now wear out both house and land;
That the wives in silk may flow, at ebb the good men stand.

Once again, Astraea! then from heaven to earth descend,
And vouchsafe in their behalf these errors to amend.
Aid from heaven must make all even, things are so out of frame;
For let man strive all he can, he needs must please his dame.
Happy man, content that gives and what he gives enjoys!
Happy dame, content that lives and breaks no sleep for toys!

From FARMER's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1599.

Fair Phyllis I saw sitting all alone,
Feeding her flock near to the mountain-side;
The shepherds knew not whither she was gone,
But after her lover Amyntas hied.
Up and down he wandered, whilst she was missing;
When he found her, oh then they fell a-kissing!

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs_, 1588.

Farewell, false Love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possest;
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.

A poison'd serpent cover'd all with flowers,
Mother of sighs and murderer of repose;
A sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poison