ew;
Then will I pray again, hoping to find,
As well as in your looks, heaven in your mind.

Saint of my heart, queen of my life and love,
O let my vows thy loving spirit move!
Let me no longer mourn through thy disdain,
But with one touch of grace cure all my pain!

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

Flora gave me fairest flowers,
None so fair in Flora's treasure;
These I placed on Phyllis' bowers,
She was pleased, and she my pleasure:
Smiling meadows seem to say,
"Come, ye wantons, here to play."

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

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!
There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:
But, if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again.

All that I sang still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end;
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy:
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.

From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Airs_, 1601.

{ouk esti gemas hostis ou cheimazetai,
legousi pantes; kai gamousin eidotes.}
_Anthol. Graec._

Fond wanton youths make love a God
Which after proveth Age's rod;
Their youth, their time, their wit, their art
They spend in seeking of their smart;
And, which of follies is the chief,
They woo their woe, they wed their grief.

All find it so who wedded are,
Love's sweets, they find, enfold sour care;
His pleasures pleasing'st in the eye,
Which tasted once with loathing die:
They find of follies 'tis the chief,
Their woe to woo, to wed their grief.

If for their own content they choose
Forthwith their kindred's love they lose;
And if their kindred they content,
For ever after they repent;
O 'tis of all our follies chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our grief.

In bed, what strifes are bred by day,
Our puling wives do open lay;
None friends, none foes we must esteem
But whom they so vouchsafe to deem:
O 'tis of all our follies chief,
Our woe to woo, to wed our