Ich have had ladies many vair,
And eke thou hast my heart in hold
And in my mind zeems passing rare.
Chorus. _And eke thou hast his heart in hold
And in his mind seems passing rare._

Ich will put on my best white slops
And ich will wear my yellow hose,
And on my head a good grey hat,
And in't ich stick a lovely rose.
Chorus. _And on his head a good grey hat,
And in't he'll stick a lovely rose._

Wherefore cease off, make no delay,
And if you'll love me, love me now;
Or else ich zeek zome oderwhere,
For I cannot come every day to woo.
Chorus. _Or else he'll zeek zome oderwhere,
For he cannot come every day to woo._

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs of Sadness and Piety_,
1588.

I joy not in no earthly bliss,
I force not Cr[oe]sus' wealth a straw;
For care I know not what it is
I fear not Fortune's fatal law:
My mind is such as may not move
For beauty bright nor force of love.

I wish but what I have at will,
I wander not to seek for more;
I like the plain, I climb no hill;
In greatest storms I sit on shore
And laugh at them that toil in vain
To get what must be lost again.

I kiss not where I wish to kill;
I feign not love where most I hate;
I break no sleep to win my will;
I wait not at the mighty's gate;
I scorn no poor, nor fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.

The court and cart I like nor loath;
Extremes are counted worst of all;
The golden mean between them both
Doth surest sit and fears no fall.
This is my choice: for why? I find
No wealth is like the quiet mind.

From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.

I live, and yet methinks I do not breathe;
I thirst and drink, I drink and thirst again;
I sleep and yet do dream I am awake;
I hope for that I have; I have and want:
I sing and sigh; I love and hate at once.
O, tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar
Doth cause in store such want, in peace such war?

_Risposta._
There is a jewel which no Indian mines
Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty;
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain:
Seldom it come, to few from