Go back to 'The First Booke, Part 3 - VII to IX'
Return to ' The First Booke, Part 1 - To The Reader, Airs I to III '
This is an unfinished page that I hope to edit sometime in the future.
O my poor eyes, the sun whose shine
Late gave you light doth now decline,
And, set to you, to others riseth.
She who would sooner die than change,
Not fearing death delights to range,
A now, O now, O now my soul despiseth.
Yet, O my heart, thy state is blest
To find our rest in thy unrest,
Since thou her slave no more remainest.
For she that bound thee sets thee free(- see Jones #2 in this 1st booke)
Then when she first forsaketh thee.
Such, O such, O such right by wrong thou gainest.
Eyes, gaze no more! heart learn to hate!
Experience tells you all too late
Fond woman's love with faith still warreth,
While true desert speaks, writes and gives,
Some groom the bargain nearer drives,
And he, O he, O he, the market marreth.
- not a nice lyric - it is like [along the same theme] the Rolling Stones's 'Lady Jane' Typed & written May 27, 2004. fixed & finished at home.
There are no notes about this song, in either Edward Doughtie's 'Lyrics From Elizabethan Airs , 1596-1622' or Edmund H. Fellowes' English Madrigal Verse.
I don't know of any recordings of this song.
If fathers knew but how to leaue
Their children wit as they do wealth,
& could constraine them to receiue
That physicke which brings perfect health,
Y world would not admiring stand,
A womans face and womans hand.
Women confesse they must obey,
We men will needes be seruants still:
We kisse their hands and what they say,
We must commend bee't neuer so ill.
Thus we like fooles admiring stand,
Her pretty foote and pretty hand.
We blame their pride which we increase,
By making mountaines of a mouse:
We praise because we know we please,
Poore women are too credulous.
To thinke that we admiring stand,
Or foote, or face, or foolish hand.
XIV. If fathers knew but how to leave - Notes, Recordings and Comments
Life is a Poets fable,
& al her daies are lies
Stolne from deaths reckoning table,
For I die as I speake,
Death times the notes that I doe breake.
Childhood doth die in youth,
And youth in old age dies,
I thought I liu'd in truth:
But I die, now I see,
Each age of death makes one degree.
Farewell the doting score,
Of worlds arithmeticke,
Life, ile trust thee no more,
Till I die, for thy sake,
Ile go by deaths new almanacke.
This instant of my song,
A thousand men lie sicke,
A thousand knels are rong:
And I die as they sing,
They are but dead and I dying.
Death is but lifes decay,
Life time, time wastes away,
Then reason bids me say, 24: That I die, though my breath
Prolongs this space of lingring death.
XV. Life is a poet's fable - Notes, Recordings and Comments
Edward Doughtie's 'Lyrics From Elizabethan Airs , 1596-1622' Cambridge, Mass. Harvard University Press, 1970.
The English School of Lutenist Song-Writers Series 2, volume 4. The first booke of songes and ayres, 1600. Stainer & Bell (1959).