past,
Called to thy mind, thy heart would burn;
And couldst thou fly ne'er so fast,
They would make thee straight return.

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

If women could be fair and never fond,
Or that their beauty might continue still,
I would not marvel though they made men bond
By service long to purchase their goodwill:
But when I see how frail these creatures are,
I laugh that men forget themselves so far.

To mark what choice they make and how they change,
How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still;
And how, like haggards wild, about they range,
And scorning reason follow after will![6]
Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist
And let them fly (fair fools!) which way they list?

Yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when nothing else can please:
And train them on to yield by subtle oath
The sweet content that gives such humour ease:
And then we say, when we their follies try,
"To play with fools, O, what a fool was I!"

[6] So Oliphant.--Old ed., "Scorning after reason to follow will."

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Songs, and Sonnets_, 1611.

In crystal towers and turrets richly set
With glitt'ring gems that shine against the sun,
In regal rooms of jasper and of jet,
Content of mind not always likes to won;[7]
But oftentimes it pleaseth her to stay
In simple cotes enclosed with walls of clay.

[7] Dwell.

From JOHN COPRARIO's _Funeral Tears, etc._, 1606.

In darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be,
The roof despair to bar all cheerful light from me,
The walls of marble black that moistened still shall weep,
My music hellish jarring sounds to banish friendly sleep:
Thus wedded to my woes, and bedded in my tomb
O let me dying live till death doth come.

My dainties grief shall be, and tears my poisoned wine,
My sighs the air through which my panting heart shall pine,
My robes my mind shall suit exceeding blackest night,
My study shall be tragic thoughts sad fancy to delight,
Pale ghosts and frightful shades shall my acquaintance be:
O thus, my hapless joy, I haste to thee.

From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594.

In midst of woods or pleasant grove,
Where all sweet birds do sing,
Methought I heard s