







 
   
     
       
         Cheerfull ayres or ballads first composed for one single voice, and since set for three voices / by John Wilson ...
         Cheerfull ayres or ballads
         Wilson, John, 1595-1674.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A66559 of text R207813 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing W2908). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A66559
         Wing W2908
         ESTC R207813
         12829686
         ocm 12829686
         94319
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
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         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A66559)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 94319)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 44:10)
      
       
         
           
             Cheerfull ayres or ballads first composed for one single voice, and since set for three voices / by John Wilson ...
             Cheerfull ayres or ballads
             Wilson, John, 1595-1674.
             Johnson, Robert, ca. 1583-1633.
             Lanier, Nicholas, 1588-1666.
          
           1 score ([8], 147 p.) + 2 parts
           
             Printed by W. Hall for Ric. Davis ...,
             Oxford :
             1660.
          
           
             "Cantus primus is a compleate book of it selfe, carrying the principall ayre to sing alone with a through bass. Cantus secundus and bassus are also printed singly to make two, or three parts, as shall be requisite for the company that will use them"--Pref.
             Songs by Johnson, Lanier, Wilson, and anonymous.
             First ed. Cf. Wing.
             Errata on p. [3] of pt. 1.
             Reproduction of original in Library of Congress.
             Imperfect: parts are lacking on film.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Songs with continuo.
           Part-songs, English.
           Vocal duets with continuo.
           Vocal trios with continuo.
        
      
    
       A66559  R207813  (Wing W2908).  civilwar no Cheerfull ayres or ballads first composed for one single voice and since set for three voices by John Wilson Dr in Musick Professor of the s Wilson, John 1659    10084 7 0 0 696 0 0 6909 F  The  rate of 6909 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the F category of texts with  100 or more defects per 10,000 words. 
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        Assigned for keying and markup
      
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        2004-08 John Latta
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        2004-10 pfs
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           Cheerfull
           Ayres
           OR
           BALLADS
           First
           composed
           for
           one
           single
           Voice
           and
           since
           set
           for
           three
           Voices
        
         
           BY
           JOHN
           WILSON
           DR
           
             in
             MUSICK
             Professor
             of
             the
             same
             in
             the
             UNIVERSITY
             OF
             OXFORD
             .
          
        
         
           OXFORD
           .
           Printed
           by
           
             W.
             HALL
             ,
          
           for
           
             RIC.
             DAVIS
             .
             Anno
             Dom.
          
           M
           DC
           LX
           .
        
      
       
       
       
         
           THE
           PREFACE
           .
        
         
           SOme
           few
           of
           these
           Ayres
           were
           Originally
           composed
           by
           those
           whose
           names
           are
           affixed
           to
           them
           ,
           but
           are
           here
           placed
           as
           being
           new
           set
           by
           the
           Author
           of
           the
           rest
           .
        
         
           
             CANTUS
             PRIMUS
          
           is
           a
           compleate
           Book
           of
           it selfe
           ,
           carrying
           the
           principall
           Ayre
           to
           Sing
           alone
           with
           a
           through
           Base
           .
           
             CANTUS
             SECUNDUS
          
           and
           
             BASSUS
          
           are
           also
           printed
           singly
           to
           make
           two
           ,
           or
           three
           Parts
           ,
           as
           shall
           be
           requisite
           for
           the
           Company
           that
           will
           use
           them
           .
        
         
           This
           being
           the
           first
           Essay
           (
           for
           ought
           we
           understand
           )
           of
           printing
           Musick
           that
           ever
           was
           in
           
             Oxford
             ,
          
           and
           the
           Printers
           being
           unacquainted
           with
           such
           Work
           ,
           hath
           occasioned
           the
           faults
           hereafter
           mentioned
           ,
           in
           this
           single
           Book
           ,
           the
           greater
           number
           whereof
           are
           the
           omission
           of
           Moods
           ,
           which
           are
           supplyed
           in
           the
           other
           two
           Parts
           ,
           and
           will
           be
           easily
           mended
           with
           a
           pen
           in
           this
           .
           The
           consideration
           of
           what
           is
           here
           premised
           ,
           with
           assurance
           that
           the
           other
           two
           Parts
           are
           more
           correct
           ,
           and
           a
           promise
           of
           better
           care
           in
           what
           shall
           issue
           from
           this
           Presse
           for
           the
           future
           will
           (
           doubtlesse
           with
           unprejudic'd
           Persons
           )
           procure
           pardon
           for
           the
           present
           Errata
           .
        
      
       
         
           ERRATA
           IN
           CANTUS
           PRIMUS
           .
        
         
           
             Mode
             wants
             .
             pag.
             6.
             26.
             28.
             30.
             32.
             34.
             36.
             38.
             40.
             53.
             54.
             57.
             58.
             60.
             62.
             64.
             67.
             70.
             73.
             76.
             
          
           
             Page
             13.
             l.
             3.
             note
             3.
             should
             stand
             in
             
               D
               la
               sol
               re
               .
            
          
           
             33.
             l.
             4.
             note
             1.
             should
             stand
             in
             
               B
               me
               .
            
          
           
             34.
             second
             barr
             &
             second
             line
             ,
             a
             note
             wanting
             in
             
               C
               fa
               ut
               .
            
             the
             
               4th
            
             line
             and
             second
             barr
             the
             semibriefe
             should
             stand
             in
             
               B
               me
               .
            
          
           
             49.
             two
             first
             notes
             of
             the
             
               2d
            
             barr
             and
             
               3d
            
             line
             should
             be
             flat
             and
             the
             semibriefe
             in
             the
             
               3d
            
             bar
             of
             the
             
               4th
            
             line
             flat
             and
             the
             
               2d
            
             note
             of
             the
             5.
             line
             and
             first
             of
             the
             
               6th
            
             line
             flat
             also
             .
          
           
             Page
             .
             52.
             
             The
             last
             note
             of
             the
             forth
             line
             should
             stand
             in
             
               A
               re
               .
            
          
           
             64.
             
             The
             first
             note
             of
             the
             sixth
             line
             should
             stand
             in
             
               D
               sol
               re
               .
            
          
           
             65.
             
             The
             fift
             note
             of
             the
             last
             barr
             in
             the
             fift
             line
             ,
             should
             be
             a
             Crotchet
             .
          
           
             66.
             
             The
             last
             note
             of
             the
             Base
             should
             stand
             in
             
               C
               fa
               ut
               .
            
          
           
             67.
             
             The
             semibriefe
             of
             the
             third
             barr
             in
             the
             sixth
             line
             should
             stand
             in
             
               C
               fa
               ut
               .
            
          
           
             93.
             
             The
             forth
             note
             in
             the
             2d
             line
             should
             stand
             in
             
               G
               sol
               re
               ut
               .
            
          
        
      
       
       
         
           THE
           TABLE
           .
        
         
           
             
               
                 Key
              
               
                  
              
               
                 Cant.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 Cant.
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Bassus
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 G
                 sharp
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 Troy
                 towne
              
               
                 2
              
               
                 2
              
               
                 2
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 the
                 fayre
                 Lavinian
              
               
                 3
              
               
                 3
              
               
                 3
              
            
             
               
                 Will
                 you
                 buy
                 any
                 honesty
              
               
                 4
              
               
                 4
              
               
                 4
              
            
             
               
                 Full
                 Fathom
                 five
              
               
                 6
              
               
                 5
              
               
                 5
              
            
             
               
                 Where
                 the
                 Bee
                 sucks
              
               
                 8
              
               
                 6
              
               
                 6
              
            
             
               
                 When
                 Love
                 with
              
               
                 10
              
               
                 7
              
               
                 7
              
            
             
               
                 Have
                 you
                 any
                 worke
              
               
                 12
              
               
                 8
              
               
                 8
              
            
             
               
                 Come
                 hither
                 you
                 that
              
               
                 14
              
               
                 10
              
               
                 10
              
            
             
               
                 Young
                 Thirsis
                 lay
                 in
              
               
                 16
              
               
                 11
              
               
                 11
              
            
             
               
                 Kawasha
                 comes
                 in
              
               
                 18
              
               
                 12
              
               
                 12
              
            
             
               
                 Cast
                 your
                 Caps
                 and
              
               
                 22
              
               
                 14
              
               
                 14
              
            
             
               
                 G
                 flat
              
               
                 Doe
                 not
                 feare
                 to
                 put
              
               
                 24
              
               
                 16
              
               
                 16
              
            
             
               
                 Thoughts
                 doe
                 not
                 vex
                 me
              
               
                 26
              
               
                 17
              
               
                 17
              
            
             
               
                 Who
                 so
                 complaineth
              
               
                 28
              
               
                 18
              
               
                 18
              
            
             
               
                 Come
                 silent
                 night
              
               
                 30
              
               
                 19
              
               
                 19
              
            
             
               
                 Come
                 I
                 faint
              
               
                 128
              
               
                 78
              
               
                 78
              
            
             
               
                 A
              
               
                 Come
                 constant
                 hearts
              
               
                 32
              
               
                 20
              
               
                 20
              
            
             
               
                 Love
                 and
                 disdaine
              
               
                 34
              
               
                 21
              
               
                 21
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 a
                 season
                 .
              
               
                 36
              
               
                 22
              
               
                 22
              
            
             
               
                 Cupid
                 thou
                 art
                 a
              
               
                 38
              
               
                 23
              
               
                 23
              
            
             
               
                 Though
                 your
                 strangenesse
              
               
                 40
              
               
                 24
              
               
                 24
              
            
             
               
                 Aske
                 me
                 no
                 more
              
               
                 42
              
               
                 25
              
               
                 33
              
            
             
               
                 Cloras
                 false
                 Love
              
               
                 44
              
               
                 26
              
               
                 34
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 Love
                 (
                 Ahlas
                 )
              
               
                 46
              
               
                 27
              
               
                 35
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 sharp
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 dye
              
               
                 48
              
               
                 28
              
               
                 36
              
            
             
               
                 Greedy
                 Lover
              
               
                 50
              
               
                 29
              
               
                 37
              
            
             
               
                 B
                 flat
                 .
              
               
                 Thine
                 Eyes
                 to
                 me
              
               
                 53
              
               
                 31
              
               
                 39
              
            
             
               
                 Awake
                 awake
              
               
                 54
              
               
                 32
              
               
                 40
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 would
                 have
                 thee
                 merry
              
               
                 57
              
               
                 42
              
               
                 42
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 the
                 merry
                 Mont
                 .
              
               
                 58
              
               
                 43
              
               
                 43
              
            
             
               
                 C
                 flat
                 .
              
               
                 Faine
                 would
                 I
                 Cloris
              
               
                 60
              
               
                 44
              
               
                 44
              
            
             
               
                 Deare
                 give
                 me
                 a
                 thousand
              
               
                 62
              
               
                 45
              
               
                 45
              
            
             
               
                 Lawn
                 as
                 white
                 as
                 driven
              
               
                 64
              
               
                 46
              
               
                 46
              
            
             
               
                 Goe
                 weatherbeaten
              
               
                 67
              
               
                 48
              
               
                 48
              
            
             
               
                 Goe
                 restlesse
                 thoughts
              
               
                 70
              
               
                 50
              
               
                 50
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 my
                 Lady
                 bid
                 begin
              
               
                 73
              
               
                 52
              
               
                 52
              
            
             
               
                 Boast
                 not
                 blind
                 Boy
              
               
                 7●
              
               
                 54
              
               
                 55
              
            
             
               
                 When
                 on
                 mine
                 Eyes
              
               
                 ●●
              
               
                 ●6
              
               
                 56
              
            
             
               
                 C
                 sharp
                 .
              
               
                 Tell
                 me
                 where
                 your
              
               
                 76
              
               
                 53
              
               
                 53
              
            
             
               
                 Come
                 thou
                 Father
                 of
              
               
                 80
              
               
                 55
              
               
                 54
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 this
                 my
                 litle
              
               
                 82
              
               
                 56
              
               
                 56
              
            
             
               
                 D
              
               
                 Noe
                 noe
                 I
                 tell
                 thee
                 noe
              
               
                 84
              
               
                 57
              
               
                 57
              
            
             
               
                 For
                 ever
                 let
              
               
                 86
              
               
                 58
              
               
                 59
              
            
             
               
                 Fly
                 hence
                 shadowes
                 that
              
               
                 88
              
               
                 59
              
               
                 58
              
            
             
               
                 Since
                 love
                 hath
                 brought
              
               
                 92
              
               
                 60
              
               
                 61
              
            
             
               
                 You
                 Heraulds
                 of
                 my
              
               
                 94
              
               
                 62
              
               
                 63
              
            
             
               
                 Why
                 thinkst
                 thou
                 foole
              
               
                 96
              
               
                 63
              
               
                 62
              
            
             
               
                 E
                 flat
              
               
                 Since
                 Love
                 hath
                 in
              
               
                 90
              
               
                 61
              
               
                 60
              
            
             
               
                 When
                 the
                 cleare
                 Sun
              
               
                 98
              
               
                 64
              
               
                 64
              
            
             
               
                 Thou
                 that
                 excellest
              
               
                 106
              
               
                 67
              
               
                 67
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 sweare
                 by
                 Muskadell
              
               
                 108
              
               
                 68
              
               
                 68
              
            
             
               
                 Fondnesse
                 of
                 Man
              
               
                 110
              
               
                 69
              
               
                 69
              
            
             
               
                 You
                 say
                 you
                 love
                 me
              
               
                 114
              
               
                 71
              
               
                 71
              
            
             
               
                 Hence
                 with
                 this
                 Wedlook
              
               
                 116
              
               
                 72
              
               
                 72
              
            
             
               
                 So
                 have
                 I
                 seen
              
               
                 118
              
               
                 73
              
               
                 73
              
            
             
               
                 Viw'st
                 thou
                 that
                 poore
              
               
                 120
              
               
                 74
              
               
                 74
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 I
                 must
                 tel
                 you
              
               
                 122
              
               
                 75
              
               
                 75
              
            
             
               
                 F
                 flat
              
               
                 What
                 would
                 any
                 man
              
               
                 103
              
               
                 66
              
               
                 66
              
            
             
               
                 Down
                 be
                 still
                 you
                 seas
              
               
                 112
              
               
                 70
              
               
                 70
              
            
             
               
                 Bee
                 not
                 thou
                 so
                 foolish
              
               
                 126
              
               
                 77
              
               
                 77
              
            
             
               
                 F
                 sharp
              
               
                 God
                 Lyeus
              
               
                 130
              
               
                 79
              
               
                 79
              
            
             
               
                 Not
                 Roses
                 couch't
              
               
                 132
              
               
                 80
              
               
                 80
              
            
             
               
                 So
                 many
                 Loves
                 have
                 I
              
               
                 134
              
               
                 81
              
               
                 81
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 the
                 Lusty
                 spring
              
               
                 136
              
               
                 82
              
               
                 82
              
            
             
               
                 Whereforè
                 peep'st
                 thou
              
               
                 138
              
               
                 83
              
               
                 83
              
            
             
               
                 Turne
                 thy
                 beautious
                 face
              
               
                 140
              
               
                 84
              
               
                 84
              
            
             
               
                 When
                 I
                 beheld
                 my
              
               
                 142
              
               
                 85
              
               
                 85
              
            
             
               
                 My
                 Love
                 and
                 I
              
               
                 144
              
               
                 86
              
               
                 86
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 a
                 vale
                 with
                 flowrets
              
               
                 146
              
               
                 87
              
               
                 87
              
            
          
        
      
       
       
         
           To
           the
           ever
           honoured
           Dr
           JOHN
           WILSON
           on
           his
           incomparable
           Book
           of
           Ballads
           .
        
         
           
             NOt
             as
             a
             bush
             to
             thy
             more
             noble
             wine
             .
          
           
             Doe
             we
             prefix
             these
             lines
             ;
             what
             ever
             's
             thine
          
           
             Commends
             it selfe
             ;
             we
             pay
             our
             homage
             ,
             due
          
           
             To
             this
             diviner
             science
             and
             to
             you
             :
          
           
             Did
             Orpheus
             Harpe
             cause
             beasts
             to
             dance
             ,
             thine
             more
          
           
             Thy
             loftier
             strains
             draw
             love
             from
             them
             ,
             before
          
           
             Did
             hate
             thy
             art
             and
             thee
             :
             this
             wonder
             shall
          
           
             Raise
             thee
             to
             be
             a
             God
             ,
             make
             him
             to
             fall
             .
          
           
             Sure
             some
             Intelligence
             was
             sent
             from
             Jove
          
           
             T'
             acquaint
             thee
             with
             the
             Harmony
             above
             ;
          
           
             How
             else
             with
             such
             composure
             are
             we
             blest
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             Angells
             Musick
             though
             in
             Mortalls
             dresse
          
           
             Those
             low
             and
             creeping
             words
             we
             Ballads
             call
          
           
             Thy
             powre
             has
             raisd
             to
             be
             coelestiall
             .
          
           
             O
             prodigie
             of
             nature
             that
             couldst
             keep
          
           
             Thy
             soul
             in
             tune
             ,
             when
             all
             the
             world
             was
             deep
          
           
             In
             discord
             :
             it
             's
             then
             time
             ,
             for
             thee
             to
             set
          
           
             Some
             sprightly
             Ayre
             ,
             when
             there
             's
             most
             need
             of
             it
             .
          
           
             When
             sacred
             Anthems
             ceased
             ,
             and
             in
             stead
          
           
             Of
             that
             more
             heavenly
             Musick
             ,
             did
             succeed
          
           
             Nothing
             but
             barking
             tones
             ,
             when
             Organs
             were
          
           
             By
             Trumpets
             silenc'd
             ,
             then
             blown
             from
             the
             Quire
             ;
          
           
             Thou
             ,
             borne
             to
             humour
             all
             ,
             out
             of
             thy
             braine
          
           
             Full
             fraught
             with
             melodye
             ,
             didst
             hatch
             this
             traine
          
           
             Of
             songs
             ,
             from
             whose
             sweet
             concord
             always
             runs
          
           
             Full
             streames
             of
             harmelesse
             mirth
             
             t'Apollo's
             sons
             .
          
           
             These
             Charme
             our
             senses
             make
             our
             souls
             to
             dwell
          
           
             Upon
             our
             ears
             ,
             there
             to
             keep
             Sentinell
             .
          
           
             Heer
             's
             Musick
             for
             the
             mean'st
             capacity
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             the
             skillful'st
             too
             deep
             Harmony
             :
          
           
             Hold
             still
             your
             penns
             then
             ,
             cease
             for
             to
             rehearse
          
           
             
               WILSON's
            
             deserved
             praise
             in
             untun'd
             verse
             .
          
           
             And
             learne
             to
             sing
             those
             notes
             which
             rightly
             hit
             ,
          
           
             Speake
             more
             to
             's
             honour
             th●n
             
             th'accutest
             wit
             .
          
           
             Proceed
             Harmonious
             soul
             ,
             in
             this
             thine
             art
             .
          
           
             More
             of
             thy
             Musick
             still
             to
             us
             impart
             ,
          
           
             For
             in
             these
             sheets
             thou
             shalt
             embalmed
             be
             ,
          
           
             And
             live
             a
             
               WILSON
            
             to
             Eternity
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           To
           my
           honoured
           friend
           Dr
           WILSON
           on
           His
           Musicall
           Ayres
           ,
           and
           incomparable
           Skill
           on
           the
           Lute
           .
        
         
           
             COuld
             wife
             Pithagoras
             tast
             thy
             skill
             ;
          
           
             Or
             drown'd
             in
             numbers
             drink
             his
             fill
             ;
          
           
             Could
             he
             [
             but
             revel't
             in
             thy
             Ayre
          
           
             One
             houre
             ,
             he
             'd
             sweare
             thy
             soul
             is
             there
             .
          
           
             Thou
             'lt
             tempt
             ,
             (
             take
             but
             thy
             Lute
             in
             hand
             ,
             )
          
           
             
               Euridice
            
             againe
             to
             Land
             ;
          
           
             Who
             Ravisht
             with
             one
             carelesse
             glance
             ,
          
           
             May
             safely
             venture
             t'other
             dance
          
           
             On
             fatall
             Serpents
             ,
             lul'd
             in
             
             th'armes
          
           
             Of
             thy
             soft
             notes
             they
             'l
             need
             no
             charmes
             ,
          
           
             Labour
             but
             on
             thy
             strings
             ,
             they
             'l
             throng
          
           
             Themselves
             into
             a
             Swans
             last
             song
             ;
          
           
             Where
             every
             note
             will
             ring
             the
             knell
          
           
             Of
             some
             dead
             baffled
             Philomel
             .
          
        
         
           
             E.
             D.
          
           ex
           AE
           de
           Christi
        
      
       
       
         
           On
           that
           incomparable
           Master
           of
           Musick
           Dr
           WILSON
           .
        
         
           
             
               SIR
               ,
            
             such
             in
             sounds
             your
             skill
             's
             ,
             that
             while
             you
             're
             here
             ,
          
           
             
               Oxfords
            
             not
             only
             Englands
             eye
             but
             Eare
             :
          
           
             So
             at
             a
             shake
             of
             yours
             our
             passions
             flow
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             you
             reacht
             our
             Heartstrings
             with
             your
             Bow
             ,
          
           
             Touch
             your
             Theorboe
             ,
             and
             round
             all
             our
             souls
          
           
             Like
             Unisons
             the
             restlesse
             Quaver
             rouls
             ,
          
           
             Your
             
               *
            
             Schoole
             did
             never
             so
             deserve
             its
             name
             ,
          
           
             As
             since
             your
             ravishing
             Rhetorick
             thither
             came
             ,
          
           
             No
             lofty
             style
             like
             
               Ela
            
             can
             command
             ,
          
           
             No
             Figures
             like
             the
             postures
             of
             your
             Hand
             ,
          
           
             How
             have
             I
             seen
             ,
             souls
             melting
             through
             the
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             Ears
             chaind
             ,
             tongues
             silent
             at
             your
             Melodies
             .
          
           
             Like
             Orpheus
             Rivers
             ,
             Beasts
             ,
             Stones
             ,
             Birds
             you
             move
             ,
          
           
             When
             Tears
             ,
             &
             wrath
             ,
             Fiercenesse
             ,
             and
             Winged
             Love
          
           
             Follow
             your
             Tunes
             ,
             such
             Majesty
             attends
          
           
             Your
             strokes
             ,
             that
             Law
             comes
             from
             your
             Fingers
             ends
             ,
          
           
             The
             Spartans
             Musick
             made
             them
             fight
             &
             die
             ,
          
           
             Your's
             would
             have
             made
             them
             to
             graspe
             Victorie
             .
          
           
             No
             wonder
             then
             if
             Poets
             find
             their
             Feet
             ,
          
           
             When
             with
             such
             all
             Commanding
             notes
             they
             meet
             .
          
           
             Praise
             is
             an
             Echo
             to
             good
             deeds
             ,
             then
             fit
          
           
             It
             is
             ,
             good
             Musick
             should
             have
             most
             of
             it
             .
          
        
         
           A.
           C.
           
        
      
       
         
           To
           his
           honoured
           Friend
           Dr
           JOHN
           WILSON
           upon
           his
           most
           excellent
           Book
           of
           Ayres
           .
        
         
           
             LEnd
             my
             Muse
             wings
             and
             with
             them
             I
             will
             dare
             ,
          
           
             To
             soare
             aloft
             in
             your
             much
             clearer
             Ayre
             .
          
           
             Where
             your
             harmonious
             sphere
             is
             known
             to
             move
          
           
             With
             sweeter
             Accents
             then
             those
             doe
             above
             .
          
           
             Did
             now
             Promethius
             live
             hee
             'd
             find
             a
             way
             ,
          
           
             Not
             only
             for
             to
             animate
             meere
             Clay
             .
          
           
             
             
             aske
             for
             pure
             Ayre
             not
             for
             Jove's
             fire
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             might
             some
             harmonious
             soules
             inspire
             .
          
           
             Musick
             's
             compleatest
             parts
             you
             here
             have
             set
             ,
          
           
             Only
             that
             wee
             might
             find
             them
             more
             compleat
             ,
          
           
             Toth'
             envy
             of
             our
             Nation
             here
             you
             shew
             ,
          
           
             Musicks
             perfection
             perfected
             by
             you
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           To
           the
           great
           Master
           of
           Musick
           Dr
           J.
           WILSON
           upon
           his
           most
           excellent
           Book
           of
           Ayres
           .
        
         
           
             THe
             soul
             's
             a
             Symphony
             :
             
             Th'harmonious
             blast
             ,
          
           
             The
             perfect
             Ayre
             of
             the
             great
             Protoplast
             .
          
           
             No
             wonder
             then
             if
             thy
             Diviner
             Note
          
           
             Betrày
             my
             soul
             ,
             make
             mine
             invention
             dote
             .
          
           
             Stir'd
             by
             thy
             Musick
             from
             each
             melting
             string
             ,
          
           
             Didst
             thou
             not
             Cheat
             me
             of
             my
             soule
             ,
             I
             'de
             sing
             ,
          
           
             I
             'de
             Praise
             thy
             Vertues
             ;
             but
             thy
             sweetest
             Quire
             ,
          
           
             Bids
             me
             give
             audience
             only
             ,
             and
             Admire
             .
          
           
             Each
             stroake
             speaks
             
               WILSON
            
             and
             whoever
             plays
          
           
             Sings
             a
             new
             Anthem
             to
             his
             lasting
             praise
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             
               WILSON
            
             speakes
             ,
             each
             neatly
             warbled
             straine
          
           
             Is
             but
             the
             Echo
             of
             th'
             inventors
             braine
             .
          
           
             Not
             Death
             ,
             nor
             Time
             can
             e're
             eclipse
             thy
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             While
             each
             string
             ,
             from
             thy
             Book
             ,
             thus
             sounds
             thy
             Name
             .
          
           
             Ne're
             feare
             Oblivion
             then
             :
             Thy
             Glory
             shall
             ,
          
           
             Know
             none
             ,
             but
             what
             's
             the
             worlds
             great
             Funerall
             .
          
        
         
           N.
           M.
           
        
      
       
       
         
           To
           my
           honoured
           Friend
           JOHN
           WILSON
           Doctor
           of
           Musick
           ,
           on
           his
           excellent
           Book
           of
           Ayres
           .
        
         
           
             AS
             Friends
             do
             meet
             whom
             nobler
             love
             hath
             joyn'd
          
           
             And
             made
             (
             though
             sev'rall
             bodies
             ,
             yet
             )
             one
             mind
             ,
          
           
             Who
             count
             themselves
             to
             live
             ,
             not
             'cause
             they
             move
          
           
             And
             have
             a
             being
             but
             because
             they
             love
             ;
          
           
             Who
             when
             they
             view
             ,
             think
             all
             their
             soules
             i'
             th'
             eye
             .
          
           
             Or
             if
             they
             touch
             ,
             think
             it
             i'
             th'
             hand
             to
             lye
             :
          
           
             So
             doe
             I
             meet
             your
             Ayres
             ,
             they
             have
             the
             art
          
           
             Of
             drawing
             all
             my
             soule
             into
             that
             part
          
           
             Which
             they
             affect
             ,
             and
             if
             I
             chance
             to
             heare
          
           
             Them
             strook
             am
             forc'd
             to
             wish
             my selfe
             all
             eare
             .
          
           
             I
             doe
             not
             wonder
             that
             the
             King
             did
             
               *
            
             call
             ,
          
           
             
               WILSON
               ,
               ther
               's
               more
               words
               ,
               let
               's
               heare
               them
               all
               .
            
          
           
             Such
             was
             your
             skill
             ,
             that
             what
             the
             rest
             o'
             th'
             Court
          
           
             Perhaps
             thought
             long
             ,
             Judicious
             eares
             thought
             short
             .
          
           
             Excellent
             Artist
             !
             whose
             sweet
             straines
             devoure
          
           
             Time
             swift
             as
             they
             ,
             and
             make
             dayes
             seem
             an
             houre
             .
          
           
             But
             what
             need
             more
             ,
             since
             't
             is
             enough
             to
             tell
          
           
             But
             this
             ,
             
               King
            
             Charles
             
               hath
               heard
               ,
               and
               lik'd
               them
               well
               .
            
          
        
         
           J.
           H.
           O.
           C.
           
        
      
       
         
           To
           that
           Excellent
           Musitian
           the
           AUTHOR
           .
        
         
           
             'T
             IS
             well
             the
             Musick
             of
             the
             rowling
             Sphaeres
          
           
             Doth
             not
             arive
             to
             prepossesse
             our
             eares
             ;
          
           
             That
             they
             may
             entertaine
             thy
             Nobler
             Layes
             ;
          
           
             Which
             might
             embody'd
             Angels
             charme
             ,
             and
             raise
          
           
             Woods
             into
             Trances
             .
             Let
             none
             that
             at
             least
          
           
             Hath
             not
             a
             Siren
             Templ'd
             in
             his
             breast
             ,
          
           
             Pollute
             thy
             songs
             ,
             And
             in
             whose
             every
             note
          
           
             A
             Quire
             of
             Muses
             
               playes
            
             about
             his
             throat
             :
          
           
             That
             may
             
               call
               out
            
             the
             soule
             and
             make
             it
             run
          
           
             In
             a
             Triumphant
             Chariot
             'bove
             the
             Sun
             .
          
           
             Could
             others
             but
             discerne
             that
             Golden
             vaine
          
           
             Of
             Art
             ,
             those
             Graces
             that
             
               breath
            
             in
             each
             straine
          
           
             Of
             thy
             composures
             ,
             then
             they
             might
             know
             what
          
           
             (
             In
             part
             )
             to
             judge
             o
             th'
             Learned
             travaile
             that
          
           
             Teaches
             thy
             notes
             to
             
               command
            
             Raptures
             so
             :
          
           
             But
             by
             that
             selfe-concealing
             art
             (
             we
             know
             )
          
           
             Thine
             eyes
             are
             
               priviledg'd
            
             in
             thy
             frames
             to
             spye
          
           
             Those
             silken
             strings
             ,
             that
             
               fine
            
             Embrodery
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           To
           my
           worthy
           Friend
           that
           incomparable
           Musitian
           Dr
           JOHN
           WILSON
           on
           his
           Book
           of
           Songs
           of
           three
           Parts
        
         
           
             
               WHy
            
             should
             I
             loade
             with
             barren
             praise
          
           
             A
             head
             so
             often
             wreath'd
             with
             Bayes
             :
          
           
             Or
             make
             the
             greedy
             Reader
             looke
          
           
             For
             something
             good
             besides
             the
             Book
             ?
          
           
             These
             dirty
             lines
             the
             rest
             will
             soyle
             .
          
           
             And
             hardly
             serve
             to
             be
             their
             foyle
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             since
             the
             Author
             will
             impart
          
           
             Unto
             the
             gaping
             world
             his
             Art
             ;
          
           
             I
             'le
             let
             it
             know
             what
             it
             ne're
             thought
             ,
          
           
             What
             can't
             be
             learned
             may
             be
             bought
             ;
          
           
             Least
             men
             inestimable
             call
          
           
             It
             still
             and
             so
             not
             buy
             't
             at
             all
             .
          
           
             Thus
             o're
             faire
             Structures
             of
             't
             we
             set
          
           
             A
             Bill
             ,
             this
             House
             is
             to
             be
             Let
             :
          
           
             Some
             too
             perhaps
             who
             yet
             ne're
             knew
          
           
             Great
             
               WILSON
            
             what
             we
             owe
             to
             you
             ;
          
           
             When
             they
             shall
             on
             the
             Title
             page
             .
          
           
             See
             Ballads
             first
             come
             on
             the
             Stage
             .
          
           
             Will
             thinke
             ,
             because
             the
             word
             so
             grosse
             is
             .
          
           
             These
             songs
             are
             fit
             for
             Market
             Crosses
             :
          
           
             I
             'le
             tell
             'um
             they
             're
             authentick
             grown
             ,
          
           
             And
             Rimers
             now
             put
             Poets
             downe
             .
          
           
             And
             yet
             I
             will
             the
             Muses
             call
             ,
          
           
             
               Apollo
               ,
            
             and
             the
             Poets
             all
             ,
          
           
             And
             bid
             them
             tell
             me
             if
             they
             e're
          
           
             Had
             better
             Offrings
             then
             are
             here
             ,
          
           
             Call
             any
             Nobler
             (
             if
             they
             durst
             )
          
           
             Since
             they
             frequented
             Hibla
             first
             :
          
           
             Some
             humane
             ,
             More
             divine
             ;
             the
             odds
          
           
             Is
             this
             ,
             men
             made
             some
             ,
             More
             the
             Gods
             .
          
           
             Thus
             in
             a
             day
             serene
             and
             cleare
             ,
          
           
             Some
             sullen
             clouds
             fixt
             here
             and
             there
          
           
             Make
             angry
             Pheb●s
             mend
             his
             ray
          
           
             And
             add
             more
             luster
             to
             the
             day
             .
          
           
             Thus
             in
             fayre
             nights
             the
             Heavens
             are
          
           
             Not
             set
             with
             one
             continued
             starre
             ,
          
           
             But
             here
             and
             there
             a
             patch
             of
             night
          
           
             Doth
             recompence
             the
             rest
             with
             light
             .
          
           
             Now
             could
             the
             trembling
             aire
             convey
          
           
             These
             sounds
             where
             Troys
             foundations
             lay
             ;
          
           
             Each
             scatterd
             stone
             would
             shew
             his
             head
             ,
          
           
             Though
             long
             in
             ruines
             buryed
             ;
          
           
             And
             being
             ravisht
             leap
             to
             take
          
           
             The
             station
             which
             it
             did
             forsake
             :
          
           
             And
             thou
             (
             Brave
             
               WILSON
               )
            
             with
             thy
             hand
          
           
             
               Amphion
            
             like
             shouldst
             charming
             stand
             ;
          
           
             So
             should
             each
             higher
             note
             have
             powre
          
           
             For
             to
             erect
             a
             lofty
             Towre
          
           
             And
             when
             a
             deeper
             tone
             should
             sound
             ,
          
           
             To
             sinck
             a
             Cellar
             vnder
             ground
             ;
          
           
             Then
             might
             I
             question
             which
             would
             tell
          
           
             Lowder
             thy
             Fame
             ,
             Quart
             pot
             or
             Bell.
          
        
         
           
             I
             've
             done
             ,
             't
             is
             time
             the
             Reader
             see
          
           
             The
             difference
             'twixt
             Thee
             and
             Mee
             :
          
           
             I
             'le
             only
             say
             thy
             sacred
             brow
          
           
             Shall
             not
             be
             crown'd
             with
             Laurell
             now
             ,
          
           
             Stay
             then
             till
             wee
             together
             can
          
           
             Thy
             Master
             Crowne
             and
             Thee
             his
             Man
             .
          
        
         
           R.
           R.
           
        
      
    
     
       
       
         
           Cheerefull
           Ayres
           (
           or
           Ballads
           )
           for
           three
           voyces
           .
        
         
           CANTUS
           PRIMUS
           .
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             WWhen
             Troy
             Towne
             for
             ten
             years
             warre
             withstood
             the
             Greeks
             in
             manfullwise
             ,
             
             
             yet
             did
             their
             foes
             increase
             so
             fast
             ,
             that
             to
             resist
             none
             could
             suffice
             ,
             Waste
             lye
             those
             
             
             Walls
             that
             were
             so
             good
             and
             Corne
             now
             growes
             where
             Troy
             Towne
             stood
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             FRom
             the
             faire
             
               Lavinian
            
             Shore
             ,
             I
             your
             Markets
             come
             to
             store
             ,
             Muse
             not
             
             
             though
             so
             farr
             I
             dwell
             and
             my
             wares
             come
             here
             to
             sell
             .
             Such
             is
             the
             sacred
             hunger
             of
             gould
             
             
             then
             come
             to
             my
             pack
             while
             I
             cry
             what
             d'ye
             lack
             what
             d'ye
             buy
             for
             here
             it
             is
             to
             be
             sold
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             WIll
             you
             buy
             any
             Honesty
             come
             away
             ,
             I
             sell
             it
             openly
             by
             day
             ,
             I
             bring
             no
             forced
             
             
             lights
             nor
             Candle
             to
             cozen
             you
             come
             buy
             and
             handle
             ,
             This
             will
             shew
             the
             great
             Man
             
             
             good
             ,
             the
             Tradesman
             where
             he
             sweares
             and
             lyes
             ,
             the
             Lady
             of
             a
             Noble
             blood
             ,
             the
             
             
             
             City
             Dame
             to
             rule
             her
             Eyes
             ,
             You
             are
             Rich
             men
             now
             ,
             come
             buy
             and
             then
             I
             will
             
             
             make
             you
             richer
             honest
             honest
             men
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             R.
             Johnson
             .
          
           
             
             FUll
             fathome
             five
             thy
             Father
             lyes
             ,
             of
             his
             bones
             are
             Corrall
             made
             
             
             those
             are
             pearles
             that
             were
             his
             eyes
             ,
             nothing
             of
             him
             that
             doth
             fade
             but
             doth
             
             
             suffer
             a
             Sea
             change
             into
             something
             rich
             and
             strange
             .
             
             
             
             Sea
             Nymphs
             hourly
             ring
             his
             knell
             ,
             Hark
             now
             I
             heare
             them
             
             
             Ding
             Dong
             Bell
             Ding
             Dong
             Ding
             Dong
             Bell
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             R.
             Johnson
             .
          
           
             
             WHere
             the
             Bee
             sucks
             there
             suck
             I
             ,
             in
             a
             Cowslips
             Bell
             I
             lye
             there
             I
             couch
             
             
             When
             Owles
             doe
             cry
             ,
             on
             the
             Batts
             Back
             I
             doe
             fly
             ,
             after
             Summer
             merrily
             .
             
             
             Merrily
             Merrily
             shall
             I
             live
             now
             under
             the
             Blossome
             that
             hangs
             on
             the
             Bough
             
             
             
             Merrily
             Merrily
             shall
             I
             live
             now
             ,
             under
             the
             Blossome
             that
             Hangs
             on
             the
             Bough
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             WHen
             Love
             with
             unconfined
             wings
             hovers
             within
             my
             gates
             
             
             And
             My
             Divine
             Althea
             brings
             to
             whisper
             at
             my
             Grates
             .
             
             
             When
             I
             lye
             tangled
             in
             her
             haire
             ,
             and
             Fetter'd
             in
             her
             eye
             ,
             
             
             
             The
             Birds
             that
             wanton
             in
             the
             Ayre
             ,
             Know
             no
             such
             Liberty
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             HAve
             you
             any
             work
             for
             the
             Sowgelder
             hoe
             ,
             My
             horne
             goes
             to
             high
             to
             lowe
             
             
             To
             to
             lowe
             .
             Have
             you
             any
             Piggs
             Calves
             or
             Colts
             
             
             Have
             you
             any
             Lambs
             in
             your
             holts
             to
             cut
             for
             the
             stone
             ,
             here
             comes
             a
             cunning
             one
             
             
             
             Have
             you
             any
             Brauches
             to
             Spay'd
             or
             e're
             a
             fayre
             Mayde
             ,
             that
             would
             be
             a
             Nun
             ,
             come
             
             
             Kisse
             mee
             't
             is
             done
             .
             Hark
             how
             my
             merry
             horne
             doth
             blow
             ,
             to
             high
             to
             lowe
             
             
             To
             high
             to
             lowe
             ,
             to
             lowe
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             R.
             Johnson
             .
          
           
             
             COme
             hither
             you
             that
             Love
             ,
             and
             heare
             me
             sing
             of
             Joyes
             still
             growing
             greene
             
             
             Fresh
             and
             Lusty
             as
             the
             pride
             of
             Spring
             and
             ever
             blowing
             ,
             Come
             hither
             youths
             that
             
             
             Blush
             and
             dare
             not
             know
             what
             is
             desire
             ,
             and
             old
             men
             worse
             then
             you
             that
             
             
             
             Cannot
             blow
             one
             sparke
             of
             Fire
             ,
             And
             with
             the
             power
             of
             my
             Enchanting
             Song
             
             
             Boyes
             shall
             be
             able
             men
             and
             old
             and
             ould
             men
             young
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             YOung
             
               Thirsis
            
             lay
             in
             
               Phillis
            
             lap
             ,
             and
             gazing
             on
             her
             eye
             priz'd
             life
             too
             
             
             Meane
             for
             such
             good
             hap
             and
             fayne
             the
             Lad
             would
             dye
             .
             When
             
               Phillis
            
             who
             the
             
             
             Force
             did
             prove
             of
             Love
             as
             well
             as
             he
             .
             Cry'd
             to
             him
             stay
             a
             while
             my
             Love
             and
             
             
             
             I
             will
             dye
             with
             thee
             .
             So
             did
             these
             happy
             Lovers
             dye
             ,
             but
             with
             so
             little
             
             
             Paine
             that
             Both
             to
             Life
             immediately
             returne
             to
             dye
             againe
             .
             
          
           
           
             
             
               KAwasha
            
             comes
             in
             Majesteé
             ,
             was
             never
             such
             a
             god
             as
             hee
             The
             Worthy's
             they
             were
             nine
             't
             is
             true
             ,
             and
             lately
             
               Arthurs
            
             Knights
             we
             Knew
             .
             
             
             He
             is
             come
             from
             a
             farr
             Cuntreé
             To
             make
             our
             nose
             a
             Chimneé
             a
             Chimneé
             :
             But
             now
             are
             come
             up
             of
             Worthies
             new
             ,
             the
             Roaring
             Boyes
             
               Kawasha's
            
             Crew
             
               Kawasha's
            
             crew
             .
             
             
             
             
               Silanus
            
             Asse
             doth
             Leere
             to
             see
             ,
             this
             well
             appointed
             Companeé
             .
             But
             if
             
               Silanus
            
             Asse
             should
             bray
             ,
             't
             would
             make
             them
             Roare
             and
             run
             away
             .
             
             
             A
             Hey
             a
             Hey
             a
             Hey
             for
             and
             a
             Hoe
             ,
             a
             Hey
             for
             and
             a
             Hoe
             
             
             Wee
             'le
             make
             this
             great
             Potan
             Drinke
             off
             
               Silanus
            
             Cann
             ,
             Wee
             'le
             make
             
               Sylen
            
             fall
             downe
             ,
             and
             cast
             him
             in
             a
             Swoune
             .
             
             
             
             And
             when
             that
             he
             well
             drunke
             is
             returne
             To
             see
             our
             men
             of
             Ire
             of
             of
             all
             
             
             him
             turne
             him
             to
             his
             Munkey's
             from
             whence
             he
             came
             .
             More
             Insence
             Snuffing
             Puffing
             Smoake
             and
             Fire
             like
             fell
             Dragoone
             .
             
             
             
             Hath
             been
             burned
             at
             great
             
               Kawasha's
            
             foot
             ,
             then
             to
             
               Sylen
            
             or
             
               Bacchus
            
             
             
             Both
             ,
             or
             take
             in
             
               Iove
            
             to
             boote
             .
             Wherefore
             then
             yeeld
             or
             quit
             the
             field
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             CAst
             your
             Capps
             and
             Cares
             away
             ,
             this
             is
             the
             Beggers
             Holiday
             ,
             In
             the
             world
             look
             out
             and
             see
             ,
             where
             's
             so
             happy
             a
             King
             as
             he
             ,
             
             
             At
             the
             Crowning
             of
             our
             King
             ,
             Thus
             we
             ever
             Dance
             and
             Sing
             :
             Where
             the
             Nation
             live
             so
             free
             ,
             And
             so
             happy
             as
             doe
             wee
             :
             
             
             Be
             it
             Peace
             or
             be
             it
             Warre
             ,
             Here
             at
             Liberty
             we
             are
             ,
             Hang
             all
             Officers
             we
             cry
             ,
             And
             the
             Magistrates
             too
             by
             ,
             
             
             
             And
             enjoy
             our
             Ease
             and
             Rest
             ,
             To
             the
             Fields
             wee
             are
             not
             Prest
             ,
             Nor
             are
             When
             the
             Subsidy
             's
             encreast
             ,
             Wee
             are
             not
             a
             Penny
             Ceast
             ,
             Nor
             will
             
             
             Call'd
             into
             the
             Towne
             ,
             To
             be
             troubled
             with
             a
             Gowne
             .
             Any
             goe
             to
             Law
             ,
             With
             a
             Begger
             for
             a
             Straw
             .
             
             
             All
             which
             happinesse
             he
             Braggs
             ,
             He
             doth
             owe
             unto
             his
             Raggs
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             DOE
             not
             feare
             to
             put
             thy
             feet
             ,
             Naked
             in
             the
             River
             sweet
             .
             Think
             not
             
             
             Neute
             ,
             nor
             Leech
             ,
             nor
             Toade
             ,
             will
             bite
             thy
             foote
             when
             thou
             hast
             trode
             :
             Nor
             let
             the
             
             
             Waters
             rising
             high
             ,
             nor
             as
             thou
             wad'st
             in
             make
             thee
             
             
             
             Cry
             and
             sob
             ,
             but
             ever
             live
             with
             mee
             ,
             and
             not
             a
             wave
             shall
             trouble
             thee
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             THoughts
             doe
             not
             vexe
             me
             while
             I
             Sleepe
             ;
             Griefe
             doe
             not
             doe
             
             
             not
             move
             mee
             ,
             Smile
             not
             false
             hope
             while
             I
             weepe
             Shee
             cannot
             love
             mee
             ,
             Had
             I
             been
             as
             
             
             cold
             and
             Nice
             ,
             and
             as
             often
             turning
             ,
             then
             as
             shee
             had
             I
             been
             Ice
             ,
             and
             Shee
             as
             I
             
             
             
             now
             burning
             .
             
          
           
             
               Teares
               flow
               no
               more
               from
               my
               swolne
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Sighes
               doe
               not
               so
               oppresse
               mee
               ,
            
             
               Stop
               not
               your
               Eares
               at
               my
               Cryes
               ,
            
             
               O
               but
               release
               mee
               .
            
          
           
             
               Were
               you
               but
               as
               sad
               as
               I
               ,
            
             
               And
               as
               full
               of
               mourning
               ,
            
             
               Very
               griefe
               would
               make
               you
               dye
               ,
            
             
               At
               least
               ,
               leave
               off
               your
               scorning
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             WHO
             so
             complaineth
             gaineth
             ost
             Loves
             just
             reward
             .
             Who
             so
             resraineth
             
             
             paineth
             dyeing
             Sans
             regard
             ,
             then
             will
             I
             make
             a
             vertue
             of
             my
             needing
             
             
             And
             spare
             no
             speech
             since
             words
             cause
             Loves
             best
             speeding
             ,
             O
             you
             sad
             lines
             Proceeding
             
             
             
             bleeding
             ,
             shew
             my
             grev'd
             heart's
             exceeding
             needing
             .
             Tell
             her
             
             
             My
             sad
             story
             ,
             will
             impaire
             her
             glory
             ,
             If
             shee
             smile
             when
             I
             am
             sorry
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             COme
             Silent
             night
             and
             in
             thy
             gloomy
             shade
             hide
             my
             dispaire
             all
             those
             that
             
             
             Trade
             with
             griefe
             doe
             hate
             reliefe
             ,
             and
             can
             think
             nothing
             faire
             but
             thy
             dark
             
             
             Mantle
             ,
             in
             whose
             misty
             Ayre
             Contemning
             breath
             they
             grope
             for
             death
             
             
             
             Oh
             :
             come
             and
             stay
             ,
             banish
             the
             light-some
             day
             ,
             the
             harmes
             that
             are
             not
             seene
             
             
             Be
             but
             as
             though
             they
             had
             not
             been
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             COme
             Constant
             Hearts
             that
             so
             prevaile
             ,
             that
             ev'ry
             passion
             putts
             in
             baile
             ,
             my
             
             
             Innocence
             shall
             dare
             as
             farr
             ,
             to
             give
             the
             Tyrant
             open
             warre
             ,
             if
             warm'd
             with
             pride
             he
             kindle
             fires
             
             
             Wee
             'le
             drowne
             them
             in
             our
             chast
             desires
             :
             If
             he
             Assaile
             with
             Dart
             or
             Bow
             
             
             
             Wee
             le
             hide
             them
             in
             these
             hills
             of
             Snow
             ,
             so
             shall
             his
             heart
             plagu'd
             Mourne
             and
             dye
             ,
             
             
             While
             wee
             smile
             at
             his
             memory
             and
             Keep
             our
             Hearts
             our
             Eyes
             our
             Eares
             free
             
             
             From
             vaine
             Sighs
             ,
             sad
             sad
             groanes
             and
             Tears
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             LOve
             and
             disdaine
             dwells
             in
             my
             Mistress
             eyes
             ,
             contending
             
             
             which
             of
             them
             shall
             first
             destroy
             m●e
             ,
             
             Th'one
             with
             his
             restlesse
             flames
             my
             bosome
             fryes
             
             
             
             Th'other
             no
             lesse
             doth
             with
             his
             Ice
             annoy
             mee
             .
             Dearest
             ,
             since
             these
             conclude
             that
             
             
             
             I
             must
             dye
             ,
             will
             you
             not
             mourne
             at
             my
             sad
             Obsequie
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             IN
             a
             season
             all
             oppressed
             ,
             with
             sad
             sorrowes
             poore
             distressed
             ,
             
             
             
               Troylous
            
             said
             unto
             his
             
               Cressed
            
             yeeld
             O
             yeeld
             thee
             sweet
             and
             stay
             not
             ,
             O
             no
             no
             no
             no
             no
             
             
             No
             no
             no
             Sweet
             Love
             I
             may
             not
             .
             
          
           
           
             
               2
            
             
               Strife
               in
               Love
               is
               Loves
               uniting
               ,
            
             
               These
               hands
               were
               not
               made
               for
               fighting
               ,
            
             
               But
               for
               mutuall
               hearts
               delighting
               ,
            
             
               Yeeld
               O
               yeeld
               then
               sweet
               and
               stay
               not
               :
            
             
               O
               No
               No
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Deare
               if
               you
               will
               still
               persever
               ,
            
             
               In
               this
               No
               ,
               which
               answers
               never
            
             
               Doe
               what
               I
               desire
               you
               ever
               .
            
             
               And
               againe
               say
               No
               ,
               and
               spare
               not
               .
            
             
               O
               No
               No
               &c.
               I
               dare
               not
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Since
               nor
               time
               nor
               place
               nor
               plaining
               ,
            
             
               Can
               change
               this
               word
               of
               disdaining
               ,
            
             
               What
               is
               there
               for
               mee
               remaining
               ,
            
             
               But
               to
               dye
               ,
               if
               you
               gainsay
               not
               .
            
             
               O
               No
               No
               &c.
               I
               may
               not
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             CUpid
             thou
             art
             a
             wanton
             Boy
             ,
             and
             heretofore
             mad'st
             Love
             a
             Toy
             ,
             
             
             But
             in
             thy
             Raigne
             a
             Tyrant
             art
             ,
             to
             Wound
             a
             Sheaperdesses
             heart
             :
             
             
             To
             make
             her
             Sigh
             ,
             Swoune
             ,
             Weepe
             ,
             and
             Pale
             ,
             Thus
             Sick
             yet
             modest
             will
             not
             
             
             
             Vaile
             ;
             But
             cryes
             out
             
               Hymen
            
             't
             is
             your
             cure
             ,
             For
             the
             blind
             Boy
             I
             'le
             ne're
             endure
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             THough
             your
             strangenesse
             sretts
             my
             heart
             ,
             yet
             may
             not
             I
             Complaine
             ,
             You
             perswade
             me
             't
             is
             but
             Art
             ,
             that
             secret
             Love
             must
             feigne
             .
             
             
             If
             another
             you
             affect
             ,
             't
             is
             but
             a
             shew
             t'
             avoyd
             suspect
             ,
             Is
             this
             faire
             excusing
             ,
             
             
             
             O
             no
             all
             is
             abusing
             .
             
          
           
             
               When
               another
               holds
               your
               hand
               ,
            
             
               You
               sweare
               I
               have
               your
               heart
               :
            
             
               When
               my
               Rivalls
               close
               doe
               stand
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               stand
               farre
               apart
               .
            
          
           
             
               They
               enjoy
               you
               every
               one
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               must
               I
               seeme
               your
               friend
               alone
               ;
            
             
               Is
               this
               faire
               excusing
               ,
            
             
               O
               no
               all
               is
               abusing
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             ASke
             mee
             no
             more
             whether
             doth
             stray
             those
             golden
             Attoms
             of
             the
             
             
             day
             ,
             for
             in
             pure
             Love
             the
             Heavens
             prepare
             ,
             that
             powder
             to
             enrich
             thy
             hayre
             ,
             Aske
             me
             no
             
             
             More
             where
             those
             starres
             light
             ,
             that
             downeward
             shoote
             in
             dead
             of
             night
             ,
             for
             in
             thine
             
             
             
             Eyes
             they
             set
             and
             there
             ,
             fixed
             become
             as
             in
             their
             Spheare
             .
             Aske
             me
             no
             more
             where
             
             
             
               Iove
            
             bestowes
             when
             June
             is
             gone
             the
             flaming
             Rose
             ,
             for
             in
             thy
             beautyes
             
             
             Orient
             deepe
             ,
             all
             flowers
             as
             in
             their
             causes
             sleepe
             .
             
          
           
             
               Nor
               aske
               me
               more
               if
               East
               or
               West
            
             
               The
               Phoenix
               builds
               her
               Spicie
               Nest
               ,
            
             
               For
               unto
               thee
               at
               last
               shee
               flies
            
             
               And
               in
               thy
               fragrand
               bosome
               dyes
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             
               CLora's
            
             false
             Love
             made
             
               Clora
            
             weepe
             ,
             and
             by
             a
             Rivers
             side
             ,
             Her
             flocks
             which
             Is
             't
             not
             injustice
             O
             yee
             Gods
             to
             kindle
             my
             desires
             ,
             And
             to
             leave
             
             
             She
             was
             wont
             to
             keepe
             neglected
             thus
             shee
             cry'd
             .
             Poore
             victory
             to
             pierce
             a
             His
             at
             so
             much
             odds
             ,
             as
             there
             's
             no
             mutuall
             fires
             .
             
             
             
             Heart
             that
             was
             a
             tender
             one
             ,
             but
             Cowardize
             to
             spare
             your
             dart
             from
             his
             that
             was
             a
             stone
             .
             
          
           
             
               First
               part
               .
            
             
               As
               shee
               thus
               mourn'd
               the
               teares
               that
               fell
            
             
               Downe
               from
               her
               Love-sick
               eyes
            
             
               Did
               in
               the
               Waters
               dropp
               and
               swell
               ,
            
             
               And
               into
               bubbles
               rise
               .
            
          
           
             
               Second
               Part.
               
            
             
               Wherein
               her
               blubber'd
               face
               appeares
               ,
            
             
               Now
               out
               alas
               said
               shee
               ,
            
             
               How
               doe
               I
               melt
               away
               in
               teares
               ,
            
             
               For
               him
               that
               Loves
               not
               mee
               .
            
          
           
             
               First
               Part.
               
            
             
               Yet
               as
               I
               lessen
               Multiplie
               ,
            
             
               But
               in
               lesse
               forme
               appeare
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               doe
               I
               languish
               from
               mine
               eye
               ,
            
             
               And
               grow
               new
               in
               my
               teare
               .
            
             
               Breake
               not
               the
               Christall
               circles
               mee
            
             
               Sweet
               streames
               by
               your
               fayre
               side
               ,
            
             
               My
               Love
               perhapps
               may
               walking
               bee
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               may
               be
               espied
               .
            
          
           
             
               Second
               Part.
               
            
             
               And
               thus
               in
               little
               drawne
               and
               drest
            
             
               In
               a
               sad
               teares
               attire
               ,
            
             
               May
               force
               such
               passions
               from
               his
               breast
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               equall
               my
               desire
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             ILove
             (
             alas
             )
             but
             cannot
             shew
             it
             I
             keep
             a
             fire
             that
             burnes
             within
             
             
             Rake't
             up
             in
             Embers
             Ah
             could
             shee
             know
             it
             ,
             I
             might
             perhaps
             be
             Lov'd
             agen
             ,
             
             
             For
             a
             true
             Love
             may
             Justly
             call
             for
             friendship
             Love
             reciprocall
             .
             
          
           
           
             
               Some
               Gentle
               Courteous
               winde
               betray
               mee
            
             
               A
               Sigh
               ,
               by
               whispering
               in
               her
               Eare
               ,
            
             
               Or
               let
               a
               piteous
               shower
               convey
               mee
            
             
               And
               drop
               into
               her
               breast
               a
               teare
               ,
            
             
               Or
               two
               or
               more
               ,
               the
               hardest
               flint
            
             
               By
               often
               dropps
               receives
               a
               dint
               .
            
          
           
             
               Shall
               I
               then
               vexe
               my
               heart
               and
               rend
               it
            
             
               That
               is
               allready
               too
               too
               weake
               ;
            
             
               No
               no
               they
               say
               Lovers
               may
               send
               it
            
             
               By
               wrighting
               what
               they
               cannot
               speake
               ,
            
             
               Goe
               then
               my
               Muse
               and
               let
               this
               verse
            
             
               Bring
               back
               my
               life
               or
               else
               my
               Hearse
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             IF
             I
             dye
             ,
             be
             this
             my
             will
             ,
             Let
             my
             spirit
             serve
             thee
             still
             ,
             and
             desire
             if
             not
             fulfill
             
             
             Thy
             whole
             pleasure
             so
             approving
             ,
             Death
             is
             not
             the
             end
             of
             Loving
             .
             Let
             the
             
             
             Earth
             my
             Body
             have
             whence
             it
             sprung
             ,
             there
             be
             my
             grave
             ,
             Only
             the
             remembrance
             
             
             
             Have
             of
             my
             Image
             ;
             Let
             death
             never
             ,
             me
             from
             thy
             Acquaintance
             sever
             
             
             The
             last
             Breath
             my
             Tongue
             shall
             move
             ,
             be
             the
             Ayrie
             forme
             of
             Love
             ,
             And
             despight
             
             
             of
             death
             approve
             (
             lifes
             privation
             thus
             defying
             )
             if
             not
             dead
             I
             love
             thee
             dying
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             GReedy
             Lover
             pause
             a
             while
             ,
             and
             remember
             that
             a
             Smile
             heretofore
             
             
             would
             have
             made
             thy
             hopes
             a
             feast
             ,
             which
             is
             more
             since
             thy
             dyet
             was
             incr●ast
             ,
             
             
             then
             both
             Looks
             and
             Language
             too
             ,
             or
             the
             face
             it selfe
             can
             doe
             such
             a
             province
             
             
             
             Is
             my
             Hand
             as
             if
             it
             thou
             couldst
             command
             heretofore
             there
             thy
             lipps
             would
             
             
             Seem
             to
             dwell
             which
             is
             more
             ever
             since
             they
             sped
             so
             well
             ,
             then
             they
             can
             be
             brought
             to
             
             
             Doe
             ,
             by
             my
             neck
             and
             bosome
             too
             .
             If
             the
             center
             of
             my
             breast
             ,
             a
             dominion
             unpossest
             
             
             
             heretofore
             may
             thy
             wandring
             thought
             suffice
             seeke
             no
             more
             ,
             and
             my
             heart
             shall
             
             
             Be
             thy
             prize
             ,
             so
             thou
             Keep
             above
             the
             Line
             ,
             all
             the
             Hemispheare
             is
             thine
             .
             
          
           
             
               If
               the
               flames
               of
               love
               were
               pure
               ,
            
             
               Which
               by
               Oath
               thou
               didst
               assure
            
             
               Here-to-fore
               ,
            
             
               Gold
               that
               goes
               into
               the
               cleere
            
             
               shines
               the
               more
               .
            
             
               When
               it
               leaves
               agen
               the
               fire
               ,
            
             
               Let
               not
               then
               those
               looks
               of
               thine
            
             
               Blemish
               what
               they
               should
               refine
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               have
               cast
               into
               the
               fire
            
             
               Almost
               all
               thou
               could'st
               desire
            
             
               Here-to-fore
               ,
            
             
               But
               I
               see
               thou
               art
               to
               crave
            
             
               More
               and
               more
               ;
            
             
               Should
               I
               cast
               in
               all
               I
               have
               ,
            
             
               So
               that
               were
               I
               ne're
               so
               free
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               would'st
               burn
               ,
               though
               not
               for
               mee
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             THine
             eyes
             to
             mee
             like
             Sunnes
             appeare
             or
             brighter
             starres
             their
             light
             which
             
             
             Makes
             it
             Summer
             all
             the
             yeare
             ,
             Or
             else
             a
             day
             of
             Night
             .
             But
             truely
             I
             doe
             
             
             Think
             they
             are
             but
             eyes
             ,
             and
             neither
             Sunne
             nor
             Starre
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             AWake
             Awake
             the
             Morne
             will
             never
             rise
             ,
             'till
             shee
             can
             dresse
             her
             
             
             Beauties
             at
             thine
             eyes
             .
             The
             Larke
             forsakes
             her
             watry
             nest
             and
             mounting
             
             
             Shakes
             her
             dewy
             wings
             taking
             thy
             window
             for
             the
             East
             ,
             and
             as
             shee
             
             
             
             Climbes
             alost
             shee
             sings
             ,
             Awake
             awake
             the
             Morne
             will
             never
             rise
             'till
             shee
             
             
             Can
             dresse
             her
             Bauties
             at
             thine
             eyes
             .
             The
             Merchant
             bowes
             unto
             the
             
             
             Sea-mans
             Starre
             ,
             The
             Plow-man
             from
             the
             Soone
             his
             Season
             takes
             ,
             
             
             
             Only
             the
             Lover
             wonders
             what
             they
             are
             who
             seeke
             for
             light
             before
             his
             Mistres
             wakes
             .
             
             
             Awake
             awake
             the
             Morne
             will
             never
             rise
             ,
             'till
             shee
             can
             dresse
             her
             beauties
             at
             thine
             eyes
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             I
             Would
             have
             thee
             Merry
             ,
             Laugh
             ,
             and
             Smile
             ,
             and
             then
             look
             grave
             and
             sad
             ,
             
             
             In
             ev'ry
             humour
             but
             a
             while
             make
             Love
             as
             't
             is
             that's
             Mad
             ,
             I
             would
             have
             thy
             dresse
             in
             
             
             Severall
             shapes
             ,
             like
             
               Proteus
            
             carv'd
             ,
             not
             he
             ,
             in
             humour
             a
             meer
             Jack-an-apes
             ,
             then
             a
             grave
             Monkey
             be
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             IN
             The
             merry
             Month
             of
             May
             ,
             On
             a
             Morne
             by
             breake
             of
             day
             forth
             I
             
             
             Walked
             the
             woods
             so
             wide
             ,
             when
             as
             May
             was
             in
             her
             pride
             ,
             there
             I
             spyed
             all
             alone
             
             
             
               Pbilliday
            
             with
             
               Coridon
               .
            
             
          
           
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               Much
               a
               doe
               there
               was
               god
               wot
               ,
            
             
               He
               could
               Love
               but
               shee
               could
               not
               ,
            
             
               His
               Love
               Hee
               said
               was
               ever
               true
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               was
               mine
               e're
               false
               to
               you
               .
            
             
               He
               said
               he
               had
               Lov'd
               her
               long
               ,
            
             
               Shee
               said
               Love
               should
               have
               no
               wrong
               ,
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               
                 Coridon
              
               would
               Kisse
               her
               then
               ,
            
             
               Shee
               said
               Maids
               must
               kisse
               no
               men
            
             
               'Till
               they
               kist
               for
               good
               and
               all
               ,
            
             
               Then
               Shee
               made
               the
               Shepheards
               call
               :
            
             
               All
               the
               godds
               to
               witnesse
               footh
            
             
               Ne're
               was
               lov'd
               a
               fairer
               youth
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Then
               with
               many
               a
               pretty
               Oath
            
             
               As
               yea
               and
               nay
               and
               faith
               and
               troath
               ,
            
             
               Such
               as
               silly
               Sheapheards
               use
            
             
               When
               they
               will
               not
               Love
               abuse
               ,
            
             
               Love
               that
               had
               been
               long
               deluded
               ,
            
             
               Was
               with
               kisses
               sweet
               concluded
               :
            
             
               And
               
                 Philliday
              
               with
               Garlands
               gay
            
             
               Was
               crown'd
               the
               Lady
               of
               the
               May
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             FAine
             would
             I
             
               Cloris
            
             whom
             my
             heart
             adores
             ,
             longer
             a
             while
             between
             
             
             thine
             Armes
             remaine
             ,
             But
             loe
             the
             Jealous
             morne
             Her
             Rosy
             doores
             to
             
             
             Spight
             mee
             opes
             and
             brings
             the
             day
             againe
             .
             Farewell
             farewell
             
               Cloris
            
             't
             is
             time
             I
             
             
             
             Dy'de
             ,
             the
             Night
             departs
             yet
             still
             my
             woes
             abide
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             
             DEere
             give
             mee
             a
             thousand
             kisses
             pay
             the
             dept
             thy
             Lipps
             doe
             owe
             
             
             Let
             the
             number
             of
             those
             Blisses
             to
             ten
             thousand
             thousand
             grow
             ,
             'till
             to
             infinites
             they
             
             
             Flow
             .
             Let
             the
             sweet
             perfum'd
             treasure
             of
             thy
             breath
             my
             Spirits
             fill
             ,
             enjoying
             
             
             
             endlesse
             pleasures
             ,
             breaths
             rebreathing
             let
             us
             still
             ,
             breathe
             one
             
             
             Breath
             ,
             and
             wish
             one
             will
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             LAwne
             as
             white
             as
             driven
             Snow
             ,
             Cypresse
             black
             as
             ere
             was
             Crow
             ,
             
             
             Gloves
             as
             sweet
             as
             Damaske
             Roses
             ,
             Maskes
             for
             Faces
             and
             for
             Noses
             ,
             Bugle
             Braceletts
             
             
             Necklace
             Amber
             ,
             Persumes
             for
             a
             Ladyes
             Chamber
             ,
             Golden
             Coyses
             and
             stomachers
             
             
             
             for
             my
             Ladds
             ,
             for
             To
             give
             their
             Deer's
             Pinns
             and
             Poting
             sticks
             
             
             Pinns
             And
             poting
             sticks
             of
             steele
             what
             Maids
             lack
             what
             
             
             What
             from
             head
             to
             heele
             ,
             what
             
             
             
             Come
             buy
             of
             mee
             come
             ,
             Come
             buy
             come
             buy
             ,
             buy
             Ladds
             or
             else
             your
             
             
             Lasses
             cry
             come
             buy
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             GOE
             weather-beaten
             thoughts
             with
             storme
             of
             teares
             that
             issue
             
             
             From
             your selfe
             conceived
             sorrow
             ,
             prize
             her
             hard
             heart
             ,
             presse
             her
             unwilling
             eares
             to
             
             
             Heare
             my
             nights
             unrest
             my
             grieving
             Morrow
             .
             Tell
             her
             the
             harbour
             where
             your
             
             
             
             Selves
             doe
             dwell
             ,
             is
             my
             poore
             heart
             whereon
             you
             beate
             so
             sore
             ,
             as
             does
             the
             clapper
             on
             a
             restles
             bell
             
             
             Ring
             for
             the
             soules
             that
             wee
             shall
             see
             no
             more
             .
             And
             sighs
             make
             knowne
             my
             will
             is
             
             
             made
             to
             her
             ,
             to
             her
             that
             hath
             my
             heart
             for
             Legacy
             .
             Then
             burst
             your
             swellings
             home
             
             
             
             And
             in
             smoake
             vade
             ,
             to
             be
             a
             witnesse
             to
             the
             standers
             by
             ,
             that
             they
             may
             testify
             
             
             How
             much
             I
             Lov'd
             her
             ,
             and
             shee
             repent
             that
             all
             this
             never
             mov'd
             her
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             GOE
             restlesse
             thoughts
             fly
             from
             your
             Masters
             breast
             ,
             and
             seeke
             out
             her
             that
             
             
             Causeth
             thus
             my
             griefe
             ,
             presse
             to
             her
             heart
             ,
             letting
             it
             never
             rest
             untill
             from
             her
             you
             bring
             with
             
             
             You
             reliefe
             .
             Tell
             her
             you
             come
             from
             one
             ,
             that
             's
             deadly
             sick
             a
             bleeding
             heart
             
             
             
             Whose
             wounds
             cannot
             be
             healed
             by
             any
             others
             pollicy
             or
             witt
             ,
             but
             by
             a
             
             
             Love
             which
             hath
             been
             long
             concealed
             ,
             Pitty
             perchance
             may
             move
             this
             sweet
             effect
             ,
             
             
             and
             change
             her
             minde
             into
             some
             better
             moode
             .
             Pray
             heavens
             her
             favour
             
             
             
             So
             on
             you
             reflect
             ,
             that
             in
             your
             suit
             you
             may
             be
             understood
             .
             Then
             must
             you
             
             
             Bridle
             your
             unruly
             tongue
             ,
             and
             speake
             her
             praises
             and
             forget
             your
             wrong
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             IF
             my
             Lady
             bid
             beginne
             ,
             Shall
             I
             say
             No
             't
             is
             a
             sinne
             ?
             
             
             If
             shee
             bidd
             mee
             Kisse
             and
             play
             ,
             Shall
             I
             shrinke
             ?
             Cold
             Foole
             away
             .
             
             
             If
             Shee
             clap
             my
             Cheekes
             and
             spye
             little
             Cupids
             in
             my
             eye
             gripe
             my
             hand
             and
             
             
             
             Stroake
             my
             haire
             ,
             shall
             I
             like
             a
             faint
             heart
             feare
             .
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             no
             ,
             let
             those
             that
             
             
             Lye
             in
             dismall
             dungeons
             and
             would
             dye
             ,
             dispaire
             and
             feare
             ,
             Let
             those
             that
             
             
             Cry
             they
             are
             forsaken
             and
             would
             flye
             ,
             quit
             their
             fortunes
             mine
             
             
             
             Are
             free
             ,
             Hope
             makes
             mee
             Hardy
             ,
             so
             does
             Shee
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             TEll
             mee
             where
             the
             beauty
             lyes
             in
             my
             Mistresse
             ,
             or
             mine
             eyes
             ,
             is
             shee
             fayre
             
             
             I
             made
             her
             so
             ,
             Beauty
             doth
             from
             likeing
             grow
             .
             Be
             shee
             fayrer
             whiter
             than
             
             
             
               Venus
            
             Doves
             or
             
               Leda's
            
             Swanne
             ,
             What
             's
             that
             Beauty
             if
             neglected
             ,
             seen
             of
             all
             ,
             of
             
             
             
             None
             respected
             .
             Then
             let
             my
             Mistresse
             that
             I
             love
             her
             ,
             think
             her
             fayre
             
             
             Cause
             I
             approve
             Her
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             BOast
             not
             blind
             boy
             that
             I
             'me
             thy
             prize
             ,
             't
             was
             not
             thy
             Dart
             but
             those
             that
             
             
             Feather'd
             with
             her
             eyes
             first
             strooke
             my
             heart
             .
             
             Th'ill
             tuter'd
             shafts
             and
             
             
             Childish
             Bow
             ,
             on
             faintly
             loving
             hearts
             bestowe
             .
             
          
           
           
             
               I
               Vaunt
               my
               flame
               and
               dare
               desye
            
             
               Those
               Bugbeare
               fires
               ,
            
             
               Which
               only
               serve
               to
               terrify
            
             
               Fooles
               fond
               desires
               :
            
             
               Hoard
               up
               for
               such
               thy
               painted
               flame
               ,
            
             
               As
               tremble
               when
               they
               heare
               thy
               name
               .
            
          
           
             
               My
               heart
               thy
               fire
               nor
               shafts
               could
               pierce
               ,
            
             
               But
               holy
               flashes
               ,
            
             
               Swifter
               then
               lightning
               and
               more
               fierce
               ,
            
             
               Burnt
               mine
               to
               ashes
               ;
            
             
               Where
               lett
               them
               sleepe
               in
               unknown
               rest
               ,
            
             
               Since
               Fate
               concludes
               their
               Urne
               her
               breast
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             COme
             thou
             Father
             of
             the
             Spring
             :
             Come
             
               Zephirus
               ,
            
             and
             while
             we
             sing
             
             
             Spread
             thy
             Nectar-dewed
             wings
             over
             all
             this
             place
             below
             ,
             that
             from
             hence
             such
             
             
             Sweet
             may
             grow
             ,
             
               Hybla
            
             shall
             envy
             at
             the
             shew
             ,
             that
             the
             Nymphs
             and
             higher
             
             
             
             Powers
             may
             cast
             their
             eyes
             out
             at
             their
             Bowers
             ,
             and
             descend
             to
             pluck
             thy
             Flowers
             ,
             
             
             Whence
             a
             rich
             perfume
             shall
             rise
             ,
             to
             swell
             the
             Ayre
             and
             pierce
             the
             Skies
             
             
             Sweeter
             then
             a
             Sacrifice
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             SIr
             this
             my
             little
             Mistresse
             here
             ,
             did
             ne're
             pretend
             to
             
               Peters
            
             Chaire
             ,
             nor
             No
             Benefice
             shee
             ever
             sold
             ,
             nor
             Pardon
             ,
             nor
             dispence
             for
             Gold
             ,
             shee
             
             
             Any
             Triple
             Crowne
             did
             weare
             ,
             and
             yet
             shee
             is
             a
             Pope
             .
             No
             Kings
             her
             Scarcely
             is
             a
             quarter
             old
             ,
             and
             yet
             shee
             is
             a
             Pope
             .
             
             
             
             Feet
             did
             ever
             Kisse
             ,
             or
             had
             worse
             looks
             from
             Her
             then
             this
             .
             Nor
             doth
             shee
             ever
             
             
             Hope
             ,
             to
             Saint
             men
             with
             the
             Rope
             ,
             and
             yet
             shee
             is
             a
             Pope
             .
             
             
             A
             female
             Pope
             ,
             you
             'l
             say
             a
             second
             
               Ioane
               ,
            
             but
             sure
             this
             is
             Pope
             
               Innocent
            
             or
             none
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             N.
             Lanneir
             .
          
           
             
             NO
             No
             I
             tell
             thee
             no
             ,
             Though
             from
             thee
             I
             Must
             goe
             ,
             Yet
             my
             
             
             Heart
             saies
             not
             so
             .
             It
             swears
             by
             
               Stella's
            
             eyes
             ,
             in
             whose
             darting
             surprize
             
             
             It
             in
             Loves
             fetters
             lies
             .
             It
             swears
             by
             those
             Roses
             and
             Lillies
             so
             White
             ,
             
             
             
             And
             those
             Rubies
             so
             Bright
             ,
             Ne're
             to
             part
             ne're
             to
             part
             from
             my
             
             
             Deare
             deare
             delight
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             R.
             Johnson
             .
          
           
             
             FOr
             ever
             let
             thy
             heavenly
             Tapers
             on
             the
             Married
             brightly
             shine
             
             
             And
             never
             may
             un-sacred
             vapours
             drowne
             those
             glorious
             flames
             of
             thine
             .
             O
             
               Hymen
            
             
             
             That
             their
             Hands
             ,
             their
             Hands
             dost
             joyne
             untill
             thy
             Rayes
             to
             darknesse
             turne
             ,
             
             
             
             With
             thy
             high
             Praise
             ,
             with
             thy
             high
             praise
             ,
             our
             hearts
             shall
             burne
             ,
             our
             
             
             Hearts
             shall
             burne
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             FLy
             hence
             shadowes
             that
             doe
             Keepe
             watchfull
             sorrowes
             Charm'd
             in
             sleepe
             ,
             
             
             Though
             the
             eyes
             be
             overtaken
             yet
             the
             heart
             doth
             ever
             waken
             ,
             thoughts
             charm'd
             
             
             Up
             in
             busy
             snares
             of
             Continuall
             toyles
             and
             cares
             ,
             Love
             and
             griefes
             are
             so
             exprest
             ,
             
             
             
             That
             they
             rather
             sigh
             then
             rest
             .
             Fly
             hence
             shadowes
             that
             doe
             keepe
             watchfull
             
             
             Sorrows
             charm'd
             in
             sleepe
             ,
             Watchfull
             sorrows
             charm'd
             in
             sleepe
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             SInce
             Love
             hath
             in
             thine
             and
             mine
             Eye
             Kindled
             a
             holy
             flame
             ,
             
             
             What
             Pitty
             't
             were
             to
             let
             it
             dye
             ,
             what
             sinne
             to
             quench
             the
             same
             .
             
             
             The
             starres
             that
             seeme
             extinct
             by
             day
             ,
             disclose
             their
             flames
             at
             night
             ,
             and
             in
             a
             
             
             
             Subtile
             sence
             convey
             their
             Loves
             in
             beames
             of
             light
             .
             
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               So
               when
               the
               Jealous
               Eye
               and
               Eare
               ,
            
             
               Are
               shut
               or
               turn'd
               a
               side
               :
            
             
               Our
               tongues
               ,
               our
               Eyes
               may
               talke
               nor
               feare
            
             
               The
               being
               heard
               or
               spy'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               What
               though
               our
               bodies
               cannot
               meete
               ,
            
             
               Loves
               fuell's
               more
               divine
               ,
            
             
               The
               fixt
               starres
               by
               their
               twinkling
               greete
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               they
               never
               joyne
               .
            
          
           
             
               5.
               
            
             
               False
               Meteors
               that
               doe
               change
               their
               place
               ,
            
             
               Though
               they
               seem
               fair
               and
               bright
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               when
               they
               covet
               to
               embrace
               ,
            
             
               Fall
               downe
               and
               loose
               their
               light
               .
            
          
           
             
               6.
               
            
             
               If
               thou
               perceive
               thy
               flame
               decay
               ,
            
             
               Come
               light
               thine
               Eyes
               at
               mine
               :
            
             
               And
               when
               I
               feele
               mine
               fade
               away
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               take
               new
               fire
               from
               thine
               .
            
          
           
             
               7.
               
            
             
               Thus
               while
               wee
               shall
               preserve
               from
               wast
               ,
            
             
               The
               flame
               of
               our
               desires
               ,
            
             
               No
               Vestall
               shall
               maintaine
               more
               chast
               ,
            
             
               Or
               more
               Immortall
               fires
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             SInce
             Love
             hath
             brought
             thee
             ,
             and
             I
             have
             caught
             thee
             here
             in
             this
             bower
             
             
             And
             at
             this
             Hower
             ,
             Nor
             shall
             thy
             faynings
             ,
             thy
             coy
             disdaynings
             thy
             causelesse
             
             
             Chidings
             ,
             thy
             short
             abidings
             ,
             thy
             crafty
             smilings
             thy
             quaint
             beguilings
             ,
             
             
             
             Nor
             those
             thy
             struglings
             ,
             with
             all
             thy
             juglings
             shall
             make
             mee
             
             
             Leave
             thee
             No
             No
             thou
             shalt
             no
             more
             deceive
             mee
             .
             
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               See'st
               thou
               that
               fountaine
               ,
               Under
               that
               Mountaine
               ,
            
             
               Wat'ring
               those
               vallyes
               ,
               Along
               whose
               allyes
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               once
               did'st
               fly
               mee
               ,
               when
               I
               did
               spye
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Even
               in
               this
               Atire
               ,
               Held
               by
               a
               Satyre
               :
            
             
               Under
               that
               Sapling
               ,
               In
               a
               close
               grapling
               ,
            
             
               When
               I
               did
               threat
               him
               ,
               and
               after
               beat
               him
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               would'st
               leave
               mee
               ,
            
             
               No
               ,
               No
               ,
               thou
               shalt
               no
               more
               deceive
               mee
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Then
               cease
               thy
               panting
               ,
               And
               be
               not
               wanting
               ,
            
             
               In
               those
               sweet
               graces
               ,
               and
               deare
               embraces
               ,
            
             
               Wherewith
               thou
               bindest
               ,
               all
               that
               thou
               mindest
               ,
            
             
               And
               fall
               a
               Billing
               ,
               'till
               I
               be
               willing
               ,
            
             
               So
               to
               repay
               thee
               ,
               that
               which
               may
               stay
               thee
               ,
            
             
               And
               so
               delight
               thee
               ,
               that
               to
               requite
               mee
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               ne're
               wilt
               leave
               mee
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               ever
               offer
               to
               deceive
               mee
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             YOu
             Heraulds
             of
             my
             Mistresse
             heart
             ,
             beauties
             fairest
             jewell
             ,
             to
             mee
             her
             
             
             Passions
             force
             impart
             ,
             that
             I
             may
             know
             if
             Shee
             or
             no
             ,
             in-tendeth
             to
             bee
             
             
             Cruell
             ,
             your
             silence
             can
             with
             art
             expresse
             ,
             the
             heart
             's
             unfeined
             story
             
             
             
             When
             modest
             tongues
             feare
             to
             confesse
             then
             daring
             eyes
             can
             best
             devise
             enchanting
             
             
             O-ra-to-ry
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             WHy
             thinkst
             thou
             Foole
             thy
             Beauties
             Rayes
             should
             flame
             my
             colder
             
             
             Heart
             when
             thy
             disdaine
             shall
             sev'rall
             wayes
             such
             peircing
             blasts
             impart
             seest
             not
             those
             
             
             Beames
             that
             guild
             the
             day
             ,
             though
             they
             be
             hot
             and
             fierce
             t'
             have
             neither
             heate
             
             
             
             Nor
             power
             to
             stay
             ,
             when
             windes
             themselves
             displerce
             ,
             So
             though
             thine
             
             
             Eye
             heates
             my
             desire
             ,
             yet
             know
             thy
             coy
             disdaine
             falls
             like
             a
             storme
             on
             
             
             That
             young
             fire
             ,
             and
             blowes
             mee
             coole
             againe
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             WHen
             the
             cleer
             Sunn
             with
             his
             beams
             hot
             ,
             Scorched
             the
             
             
             Grasse
             in
             Meade
             and
             Mountaine
             ,
             
               Strephon
            
             the
             Sheapheard
             now
             forgot
             ,
             late
             sitting
             by
             a
             
             
             Christall
             fountaine
             under
             a
             spreading
             Beeches
             shade
             ,
             for
             
               Phyllis
            
             eare
             this
             
             
             
             Ditty
             made
             ;
             Farewell
             farewell
             false
             and
             untrue
             Love
             ,
             light
             as
             the
             winde
             
             
             Soon
             chang'd
             for
             new
             love
             .
             So
             long
             as
             I
             was
             in
             your
             sight
             I
             
             
             Was
             your
             life
             ,
             your
             heart
             ,
             your
             treasure
             ,
             and
             with
             fain'd
             eyes
             you
             moan'd
             and
             sigh'd
             
             
             
             As
             in
             flame
             burning
             past
             all
             measure
             ,
             three
             dayes
             endur'd
             this
             love
             to
             mee
             ,
             and
             
             
             It
             was
             lost
             in
             other
             three
             .
             Farewell
             farewell
             &c.
             
             Soon
             as
             another
             Swayne
             you
             
             
             Saw
             ,
             who
             may
             by
             love
             or
             likeing
             feigned
             ,
             you
             'gan
             from
             mee
             your
             love
             withdraw
             ,
             
             
             
             and
             soon
             my
             place
             he
             had
             obtained
             .
             Then
             came
             a
             third
             your
             love
             to
             
             
             Win
             ,
             and
             wee
             were
             out
             and
             he
             was
             in
             .
             Farewell
             &c.
             Doubtlesse
             you
             bear
             your
             
             
             Selfe
             in
             hand
             ,
             because
             of
             loves
             you
             breed
             such
             plenty
             ,
             to
             fill
             with
             new
             loves
             
             
             
             All
             the
             Land
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             World
             if
             it
             were
             empty
             ,
             But
             O
             you
             doe
             your selfe
             be-guile
             ,
             
             
             because
             they
             live
             so
             short
             a
             while
             ,
             Farewell
             farewell
             &c.
             
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             WHat
             would
             any
             man
             desire
             ?
             is
             he
             cold
             ?
             then
             here
             's
             a
             fire
             
             
             Is
             he
             hot
             ?
             shee
             'l
             gently
             scoole
             him
             'till
             he
             finde
             that
             heat
             does
             coole
             him
             ,
             Is
             he
             
             
             Sad
             ?
             then
             here
             's
             a
             pleasure
             ,
             is
             hee
             poore
             ?
             then
             here
             's
             a
             treasure
             .
             Loves
             he
             Musick
             ?
             
             
             
             Here
             's
             the
             choice
             of
             all
             sweet
             sounds
             in
             her
             sweet
             voyce
             .
             Does
             he
             hunger
             ,
             heer
             's
             a
             
             
             Feast
             to
             which
             a
             God
             might
             bee
             a
             guest
             ,
             and
             to
             those
             Viands
             if
             hee
             thirst
             ,
             heer
             's
             
             
             Nectar
             for
             him
             ,
             since
             the
             first
             of
             men
             that
             was
             for
             sinne
             a
             deptor
             ,
             never
             any
             
             
             
             Tasted
             better
             .
             Heer
             's
             all
             compleat
             from
             head
             to
             heele
             ,
             to
             heare
             ,
             to
             see
             ,
             tast
             
             
             Smell
             or
             feele
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             THou
             that
             excellest
             and
             sweeter
             smellest
             then
             budding
             Roses
             yet
             
             
             Cruelly
             killest
             ,
             others
             sit
             billing
             ,
             Loves
             Nectar
             spilling
             ,
             why
             shouldst
             thou
             then
             to
             mee
             
             
             Prove
             so
             unwilling
             ,
             thy
             looks
             so
             smiling
             ,
             all
             hearts
             beguiling
             
             
             
             Kindled
             the
             fire
             of
             my
             desire
             .
             
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               Then
               be
               not
               cruell
               ,
               my
               Loves
               chiefe
               Jewell
               ,
            
             
               Quench
               the
               flames
               thou
               hast
               made
               ,
               or
               give
               them
               fewell
               ,
            
             
               All
               those
               that
               knew
               mee
               ,
               when
               they
               shall
               view
               mee
               ,
            
             
               With
               death
               rewarded
               ,
               will
               curse
               her
               that
               slew
               mee
               .
            
             
               O
               let
               relenting
               ,
               and
               swift
               repenting
               ,
            
             
               From
               danger
               free
               ,
               both
               thee
               and
               mee
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Then
               wee
               'l
               lye
               gasping
               ,
               Arme
               in
               arme
               clasping
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Loves
               Sweets
               that
               have
               past
               each
               others
               asking
               ,
            
             
               Our
               hearts
               united
               ,
               this
               way
               delighted
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               not
               with
               needlesse
               feare
               ,
               no
               more
               be
               frighted
               .
            
             
               But
               with
               sweet
               Kisses
               ,
               multiply
               blisses
               ,
            
             
               Untill
               wee
               prove
               ,
               one
               soule
               in
               Love
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             I
             Sweare
             by
             Muskadell
             ,
             that
             I
             doe
             Love
             thee
             ,
             well
             and
             more
             then
             I
             can
             
             
             Tell
             ,
             by
             the
             white
             Clarret
             and
             Sack
             ,
             I
             doe
             love
             thy
             Black
             black
             black
             ,
             I
             doe
             
             
             Love
             thy
             black
             black
             black
             .
             
          
           
           
             
               2
            
             
               So
               lovely
               and
               so
               fayre
            
             
               Ore
               shaddow'd
               with
               thy
               hayre
               ,
            
             
               So
               nimble
               just
               like
               haire
               ,
            
             
               All
               these
               set
               mee
               on
               loves
               rack
               ,
            
             
               For
               thy
               sweeter
               Black
               black
               black
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               No
               goddesse
               'mongst
               them
               all
               ,
            
             
               So
               slender
               and
               so
               tall
               ,
            
             
               And
               gracefull
               too
               withall
               ,
            
             
               Which
               makes
               my
               sinews
               to
               Crack
               ,
            
             
               For
               thy
               dainty
               Black
               black
               black
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Thy
               kinde
               and
               loving
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               When
               first
               I
               did
               Espye
               ,
            
             
               Our
               loves
               it
               did
               descrye
               ,
            
             
               Dumb
               speaking
               what
               d'yee
               lack
               ,
            
             
               Mine
               answered
               thy
               Black
               black
               black
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             FOndnesse
             of
             man
             to
             love
             a
             shee
             ,
             were
             beauties
             Image
             on
             her
             
             
             Face
             so
             carv'd
             by
             Im-mor-ta-li-ty
             ,
             as
             en-vious
             time
             cannot
             disgrace
             .
             
             
             Who
             shall
             weigh
             a
             Lovers
             paine
             ,
             fain'd
             smiles
             a
             while
             his
             hopes
             may
             steere
             but
             soon
             reduced
             
             
             
             by
             sad
             disdaine
             to
             the
             first
             principles
             of
             feare
             .
             
          
           
             
               Then
               farewell
               fayrest
               ne're
               will
               I
               ,
            
             
               Pursue
               uncertain
               blisses
               more
               :
            
             
               Who
               sayles
               by
               womans
               constancy
               ,
            
             
               Shipwracks
               his
               Love
               on
               every
               shore
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             DOwne
             Be
             still
             you
             Seas
             ,
             water
             your
             dread
             master
             please
             ,
             
             
             Downe
             downe
             I
             say
             or
             be
             silent
             as
             the
             day
             ,
             you
             that
             fling
             and
             roare
             a
             loft
             
             
             Whistling
             winds
             be
             still
             and
             soft
             ,
             not
             an
             Angry
             look
             let
             fly
             ,
             you
             proud
             Mountains
             
             
             
             Fall
             and
             dye
             .
             Tumble
             no
             more
             ,
             nor
             kick
             nor
             Roare
             ,
             nor
             trouble
             her
             
             
             Keele
             to
             make
             her
             reele
             ,
             but
             safe
             from
             Surges
             ,
             Rocks
             and
             Sand
             ,
             Kisse
             her
             and
             
             
             Stroake
             her
             ,
             and
             set
             her
             a
             Land
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             YOu
             say
             you
             love
             mee
             ,
             nay
             can
             sweare
             it
             too
             ,
             but
             stay
             Sir
             ,
             
             
             'T
             will
             not
             doe
             ,
             I
             know
             you
             keepe
             your
             Oathes
             ,
             just
             as
             you
             weare
             your
             
             
             Cloaths
             ,
             while
             new
             and
             fresh
             in
             fashion
             ,
             but
             once
             growne
             old
             you
             lay
             them
             
             
             
             by
             ,
             forgot
             like
             words
             you
             speake
             in
             passion
             I
             'le
             not
             believe
             you
             I.
             
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             HEnce
             with
             this
             wedlock
             Chaine
             and
             Smart
             I
             'le
             not
             have
             
             
             People
             laugh
             at
             me
             for
             wearing
             shackles
             on
             my
             heart
             ,
             and
             live
             engag'd
             that
             might
             live
             
             
             Free
             ,
             I
             'le
             keep
             my
             Freedome
             all
             I
             can
             ,
             and
             never
             live
             a
             Mar-ri-ed
             man
             
             
             
             You
             that
             have
             servile
             mindes
             may
             marry
             and
             con-fine
             your selves
             to
             one
             
             
             I
             will
             not
             from
             my
             nature
             vary
             ,
             which
             like
             a
             thousand
             yet
             Love
             none
             
             
             But
             keep
             my
             freedome
             all
             I
             can
             ,
             and
             never
             live
             a
             Married
             man
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             SO
             have
             I
             seene
             a
             Silver
             Swann
             ,
             as
             in
             a
             watry
             looking
             
             
             Glasse
             ,
             viewing
             her
             whi-ter
             forme
             and
             then
             ,
             Courting
             her
             
             
             Selfe
             with
             lovely
             grace
             .
             As
             now
             shee
             doth
             her selfe
             her
             selfe
             admire
             
             
             
             Being
             at
             once
             the
             fu-ell
             and
             the
             fire
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             VIew'st
             thou
             that
             poore
             penurious
             payre
             of
             Lovers
             how
             they
             
             
             Bill
             ,
             Instructed
             not
             by
             wanton
             faire
             ,
             but
             by
             a
             Mutuall
             will
             .
             
             
             Such
             needlesse
             aydes
             these
             Wretches
             scorne
             ,
             they
             finde
             out
             hid
             desires
             ,
             
             
             
             which
             in
             each
             others
             minde
             being
             borne
             begets
             them
             to
             new
             fires
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             IF
             I
             must
             tell
             you
             what
             I
             love
             before
             my
             heart
             shall
             bow
             to
             any
             
             
             'T
             is
             not
             the
             Black
             that
             I
             approve
             ,
             nor
             yet
             the
             Browne
             ador'd
             by
             many
             The
             first
             is
             
             
             Farr
             from
             all
             de-light
             ,
             't
             is
             beauties
             foe
             and
             not
             com-plexion
             ,
             The
             Embleme
             
             
             
             Of
             sad
             care
             and
             night
             ,
             still
             moveing
             horror
             not
             affection
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             WHen
             on
             mine
             eyes
             her
             eyes
             first
             shone
             ,
             I
             all
             amazed
             steadily
             
             
             Gazed
             ,
             and
             shee
             to
             make
             mee
             more
             amazed
             so
             caught
             so
             wove
             foure
             eyes
             in
             one
             as
             
             
             Who
             had
             with
             advizement
             seen
             us
             would
             have
             admir'd
             Loves
             equall
             force
             between
             
             
             
             us
             ,
             But
             treason
             in
             those
             friendlike
             eyes
             ,
             my
             heart
             first
             charming
             and
             then
             disdaining
             ,
             
             
             so
             charm'd
             it
             e're
             it
             dreamt
             of
             Harming
             ,
             as
             at
             her
             mercy
             now
             it
             
             
             Lyes
             and
             shewes
             me
             to
             my
             endlesse
             smart
             ,
             shee
             lov'd
             but
             with
             her
             eyes
             I
             with
             my
             heart
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             BE
             not
             thou
             so
             foolish
             nice
             ,
             as
             to
             bee
             in-vi-ted
             twice
             
             
             What
             should
             Woemen
             more
             incite
             then
             their
             own
             sweet
             Appetite
             ,
             shall
             Savage
             things
             more
             
             
             Freedome
             have
             ,
             then
             Nature
             unto
             Woemen
             gave
             .
             The
             Swan
             the
             Turtle
             ,
             and
             the
             
             
             
             Sparrow
             ,
             Bill
             a
             while
             then
             take
             the
             Marrow
             ;
             They
             Bill
             and
             Kisse
             ,
             what
             
             
             Then
             they
             doe
             ,
             Come
             Bill
             and
             Kisse
             and
             I
             'le
             shew
             you
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             COme
             I
             faint
             thy
             tedious
             stay
             doubles
             each
             hower
             of
             the
             
             
             Day
             ,
             the
             Nimble
             hast
             of
             winged
             love
             ,
             makes
             aged
             time
             not
             seem
             to
             move
             .
             
             
             Did
             not
             the
             night
             ,
             and
             then
             the
             light
             ,
             instruct
             my
             sight
             ,
             I
             should
             forget
             the
             Sunn
             ,
             
             
             
             For-get
             his
             flight
             .
             Shew
             not
             the
             drooping
             Marigold
             ,
             whose
             Leaves
             like
             dolefull
             Armes
             doe
             
             
             Fold
             ,
             my
             longing
             nothing
             can
             ex-plaine
             ,
             but
             Soule
             and
             Body
             rent
             in
             twaine
             .
             Did
             I
             not
             
             
             Moane
             ,
             and
             sigh
             and
             groane
             ,
             and
             talke
             alone
             ,
             I
             might
             believe
             my
             Soule
             from
             home
             were
             gone
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             GOd
             Lyeus
             ever
             young
             ,
             ever
             Honour'd
             ever
             sung
             ,
             
             
             stain'd
             with
             Blood
             of
             lusty
             Grapes
             ,
             in
             a
             thousand
             lusty
             shapes
             .
             Daunce
             upon
             the
             
             
             Mazers
             brim
             ,
             in
             the
             crimson
             Liquor
             swim
             ,
             from
             thy
             plenteous
             hand
             Divine
             ,
             let
             a
             
             
             
             River
             run
             with
             wine
             ,
             God
             of
             mirth
             let
             this
             day
             heere
             ,
             enter
             neither
             care
             nor
             
             
             Feare
             ,
             en-ter
             neither
             care
             nor
             feare
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             NOt
             Roses
             coucht
             within
             a
             Lilly
             bed
             ,
             are
             those
             commixtures
             
             
             That
             depaint
             thy
             Face
             ,
             nor
             yet
             the
             white
             ,
             which
             silvers
             Hyem's
             head
             ,
             Mixt
             with
             the
             dewy
             
             
             Mornings
             purple
             grace
             ;
             But
             thou
             whose
             fayre
             my
             Senses
             captive
             led
             ,
             whom
             I
             erst
             
             
             
             Fondly
             deem'd
             of
             heavenly
             race
             ,
             hast
             from
             my
             guiltlesse
             Blood
             which
             thou
             hast
             
             
             Shed
             ,
             and
             envies
             palenesse
             got
             thy
             white
             and
             Red
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             SO
             many
             Loves
             have
             I
             neglected
             ,
             whose
             good
             parts
             might
             move
             
             
             Mee
             ,
             that
             now
             I
             am
             of
             all
             re-ject-ed
             ,
             there
             is
             none
             will
             Love
             mee
             .
             
             
             Why
             is
             Mayden
             heat
             so
             coy
             ,
             it
             Freezeth
             when
             it
             burneth
             ,
             loosing
             what
             it
             
             
             
             Might
             enjoy
             and
             having
             lost
             it
             mourneth
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             NOw
             the
             Lu-sty
             Spring
             is
             seen
             ,
             greene
             ,
             yellow
             ,
             gaudy
             blue
             ,
             daintily
             in-vites
             
             
             the
             view
             on
             ev'ry
             Bush
             on
             ev'ry
             greene
             ,
             Roses
             blushing
             as
             they
             blowe
             
             
             And
             inviting
             men
             to
             pull
             ,
             Lillies
             whiter
             then
             the
             Snow
             ,
             Woodbines
             
             
             
             With
             sweet
             hony
             full
             .
             All
             Loves
             Emblemes
             ,
             and
             all
             cry
             Ladyes
             if
             not
             
             
             Plucks
             you
             dye
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             WHerefore
             peep'st
             thou
             envious
             day
             ,
             Wee
             can
             Kisse
             without
             thee
             ,
             
             
             Lovers
             hate
             that
             golden
             ray
             ,
             that
             thou
             bear'st
             about
             thee
             .
             Go
             and
             give
             them
             
             
             Light
             that
             sorrow
             ,
             or
             the
             Saylor
             flying
             ,
             our
             Embraces
             need
             no
             Morrow
             
             
             
             Nor
             our
             pleasures
             Eying
             .
             
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               Wee
               shall
               curse
               thy
               curious
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               For
               our
               soon
               betraying
               ,
            
             
               And
               condemne
               thee
               for
               a
               spye
               ,
            
             
               If
               thou
               see
               us
               playing
               .
            
             
               Get
               thee
               gone
               and
               Lend
               thy
               flashes
               ,
            
             
               Where
               there
               's
               need
               of
               lending
               .
            
             
               Our
               affections
               are
               not
               ashes
               .
            
             
               Nor
               our
               Kisses
               ending
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Were
               wee
               cold
               or
               wither'd
               heere
               ,
            
             
               Wee
               should
               wish
               thee
               by
               us
               ,
            
             
               Or
               but
               one
               another
               feare
               ,
            
             
               Then
               thou
               should'st
               not
               fly
               us
               .
            
             
               Wee
               are
               young
               thou
               mar'st
               our
               pleasure
               ,
            
             
               Goe
               to
               Sea
               and
               slumber
               ,
            
             
               Darknesse
               only
               gives
               us
               leasure
               ,
            
             
               Our
               stolne
               joyes
               to
               number
               .
            
          
           
           
             
             TUrne
             Turne
             ,
             turne
             thy
             beautious
             face
             away
             ,
             how
             pale
             and
             sickly
             looks
             the
             
             
             Day
             in
             emulation
             of
             thy
             brighter
             Beames
             .
             O
             envious
             light
             fly
             fly
             begone
             
             
             Come
             Night
             and
             joyne
             two
             breasts
             in
             one
             ,
             when
             what
             Love
             does
             we
             will
             re-peate
             
             
             
             in
             dreames
             .
             Yet
             thine
             eyes
             open
             ,
             who
             can
             day
             hence
             fright
             
             
             Let
             but
             their
             Lidds
             fall
             and
             it
             will
             be
             night
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             WHen
             I
             behold
             my
             Mistres
             face
             ,
             where
             beauty
             hath
             her
             dwell-ing
             place
             ,
             
             
             And
             see
             those
             seeing
             starres
             her
             eyes
             ,
             In
             whom
             Loves
             fire
             for
             ever
             lyes
             .
             
             
             And
             heare
             her
             witty
             Charming
             words
             ,
             her
             sweet
             Tongue
             to
             mine
             Eare
             affords
             
             
             
             Mee
             thinks
             he
             wants
             Wit
             ,
             Eares
             ,
             and
             Eyes
             ,
             whom
             Love
             makes
             not
             Idolatrize
             .
             
          
        
         
         
           
             Cantus
             Primus
             .
          
           
             J.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             
             MY
             Love
             and
             I
             for
             Kisses
             plaid
             shee
             would
             keepe
             stakes
             
             
             I
             was
             content
             ,
             but
             when
             I
             wonn
             shee
             would
             be
             paid
             ,
             this
             made
             mee
             
             
             Aske
             her
             what
             shee
             meant
             .
             Nay
             since
             I
             see
             quoth
             shee
             I
             see
             quoth
             
             
             
             Shee
             your
             wrangling
             vaine
             ,
             take
             your
             own
             Kisses
             and
             I
             'le
             take
             mine
             a-gaine
             .
             
          
           
           
             
             
               IN
               a
               vale
               with
               flowrets
               spangled
               ,
            
             
               To
               the
               Nymph
               that
               had
               intangled
               ,
            
             
               
                 Strephon
              
               meeting
               her
               thus
               lained
            
             
               And
               to
               her
               his
               Bosome
               Chained
               ,
            
             
          
           
             
             Tarry
             O
             tarry
             faire
             at
             the
             sigh's
             at
             the
             prayre
             of
             who
             thy
             deare
             eyes
             adm'res
             Hark
             how
             each
             thing
             wee
             see
             doe
             all
             discourse
             of
             shee
             ,
             so
             thy
             beauty
             all
             Inspires
             .
             
             
             The
             Birds
             thy
             praises
             sing
             smooth
             windes
             the
             blessing
             acknowledge
             to
             thy
             breath
             
             Th'earth
             sayes
             thou
             art
             their
             spring
             ,
             each
             flower
             confessing
             their
             sent
             and
             Colour
             was
             
             
             
             Of
             their
             sweet
             breathing
             .
             Of
             thy
             be-queathing
             .
             
          
           
             
               Thus
               sung
               hee
               ,
               but
               the
               Nymph
               fled
               him
               ,
            
             
               Him
               and
               all
               his
               praises
               scorning
               ,
            
             
               Wherefore
               as
               his
               anger
               led
               him
            
             
               To
               dispraise
               his
               praises
               turning
               ,
            
             
               Stay
               cruell
               stay
               he
               cryes
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               thy
               Eares
               and
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Of
               thy
               faults
               the
               Records
               bee
               .
            
             
               And
               those
               that
               prais'd
               thee
               late
               ,
            
             
               See
               how
               thy
               Scornes
               they
               hate
               .
            
             
               In
               their
               due
               remorce
               of
               mee
               .
            
          
           
             
               Harke
               the
               Birds
               cry
               like
               
               th'Owle
               ,
               
               th'art
               all
               their
               wonder
               ,
            
             
               The
               windes
               would
               blow
               thee
               hence
               thy
               absence
               hasting
               ,
            
             
               
               Th'earth
               sayes
               thy
               frownes
               are
               but
               a
               dartlesse
               thunder
               ,
            
             
               Flowers
               smile
               ,
               nor
               feare
               thy
               frosty
               bosomes
               blasting
               .
            
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A66559e-4800
           
             *
             The
             old
             Rhetorick
             Schole
             now
             assigned
             for
             the
             Musick
             lecture
             .
          
        
         
           Notes for div A66559e-5470
           
             *
             When
             some
             of
             these
             Ayres
             were
             presented
             to
             him
             by
             Dr
             
               Wilson
            
             Mr
             
               Low
               ,
            
             and
             others
             .
          
        
      
      
  

