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From "Pleasant Dialogues and Dramas." By THOMAS HEYWOOD, 1607.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft,
To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow
Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
To give my love good-morrow!

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,
Sing birds in every furrow,
And from each hill let music shrill,
Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird, and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow!

I PRYTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING, born 1613, died 1641.

I PRYTHEE send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine;

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For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should'st thou have mine?

Yet, now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain;

For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?

O Love! where is thy sympathy

If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;

For, when I think I'm best resolved,
Then I am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe;
I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart,
As much as she has mine.

THE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP.

RICHARD CRASHAW, born about 1615, died 1652.

THE dew no more shall weep,

The primrose's pale cheek to deck;

The dew no more shall sleep,
Nuzzled in the lily's neck:

Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

Not the soft gold which

Steals from the amber-weeping tree,
Makes sorrow half so rich,

As the drops distill'd from thee:
Sorrow's best jewels be in these
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys.

When sorrow would be seen

In her bright majesty,
For she is a Queen!

Then is she dress'd by none but thee,
Then, and only then, she wears

Her richest pearls ;-I mean thy tears.

Not in the evening's eyes

When they red with weeping are
For the sun that dies,

Sits Sorrow with a face so fair:

No where but here doth meet,
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

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If tall, the name of proper stays;
If fair, she's pleasant as the light;
If low, her prettiness does please;

If black, what lover loves not night?

The fat, like plenty, fills my heart,

The lean, with love makes me too so;
If straight, her body's Cupid's dart,
To me, if crooked, 'tis his bow.

Thus with unwearied wings I flee

Through all love's garden and his fields,

And like the wise industrious bee,

No weed, but honey to me yields.

This song is an abridgement of a poem in Cowley's "Mistress," from which several incongruous stanzas and parts of stanzas have been judiciously omitted by the musical

composer.

TELL ME NOT SWEET.

By RICHARD LOVELACE, born 1618, died 1658.

TELL me not sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

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THE RESOLVE.

ALEXANDER BROME, born 1620, died 1666.

TELL me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid;
Nor of a rare seraphic voice,
That like an angel sings;
Though if I were to take my choice,
I would have all these things.
But if that thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a she;

The only argument can move
Is, that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see

Each common object brings.
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness stain :
What fool is he that shadow seeks,
And may the substance gain?
Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,
Let it be one that's kind,
Else I'm a servant to the glass,
That's with canary lined.

AH! HOW SWEET.

JOHN DRYDEN, born 1631, died 1701.

АH! how sweet it is to love.

Ah! how gay is young desire. And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach love's fire

Pains of love are sweeter far

Than all other pleasures are.

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