Oft have I vow'd

Oft have I vow'd how dearly I did love thee,
And oft observ'd thee with all willing duty,
Sighs I have sent, still hoping to remove thee:
Millions of tears I tender'd to thy beauty,
Yet thou of sighs and silly tears regardless,
Suff'rest my feeble heart to pine with anguish,
Whilst all my barren hopes return rewardless,
My bitter days do waste, and I do languish.

poem by John Wilbye
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Lady, your words do spite me

Lady, your words do spite me,
Yet your sweet lips, so soft, kiss and delight me,
Your deeds my heart surcharg'd with overjoying,
Your taunts my life destroying.
Since both have force to spill me,
let kisses sweet, Sweet, kill me.
Knights fight with swords and lances,
Fight you with smiling glances,
So, like swans of Leander,
My ghost from hence shall wander,
singing and dying.

poem by John Wilbye
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Alas! What a wretched life is this!

Alas! What a wretched life is this!
Nay what a death! Where tyrant Love commandeth!
My flow’ring days are in their prime declining,
All my proud hope quite fall’n, and life untwining,
My joys each after other, in haste are flying,
And leave me dying for her that scorns my crying.
Oh she from hence departs, my love refraining,
For whom, all heartless alas! I die complaining.

poem by John Wilbye
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Of joys and pleasing pains

Of joys and pleasing pains I late went singing,
O joys with pains! O pains with joys consenting!
And little thought as then of now repenting;
But now think of my then sweet bitter stinging,
All day long I my hands, alas! go wringing,
The baleful notes of which, my sad tormenting,
Are ruth and moan, frights, sobs, and loud lamenting,
From hills and dales, in my dull ears still ringing.

poem by John Wilbye
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The Lady Oriana

The Lady Oriana
Was dight all in the treasures of Guiana;
And on her Grace a thousand graces tended:
And thus sang they, fair Queen of peace and plenty;
The fairest queen of twenty:
Then with an olive wreath, for peace renowned,
Her virgin head they crowned:
Which ceremony ended,
Unto her Grace the thousand graces bended.
Then sang the shepherds and nymphs of Diana,
Long live fair Oriana.

poem by John Wilbye
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Happy streams, whose trembling fall

Happy streams, whose trembling fall,
With still murmur softly gliding,
Happy birds, whose chirping call,
With sweet melody delighting,
Hath mov’d her flinty and relentless heart,
To listen to your harmony,
And sit securely in these downs apart,
Enchanted with your melody.
Sing on, and carol forth your glee,
She grants you leave her rays to see:
Happy were I, could love, but so delight her!
But Ah! alas! my love doth still despite her.

poem by John Wilbye
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There, where I saw her lovely beauty painted

There, where I saw her lovely beauty painted,
Where, Venus-like, my sacred goddess shineth,
There, with *precellent object mine eyes fainted,
That fair, but fatal star, my dole divineth.
As soon as morning in her light appeareth,
Her sweet salute, my mind o’erclouded, cleareth;
When night again the day’s delight bereaveth,
My heart’s true sacrifice she quick receiveth:
But night and day she craftily forsakes me,
To tedious day, to loathsome night betakes me.

poem by John Wilbye
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ong have I made these hills and valleys weary

Long have I made these hills and valleys weary,
With noise of these my shrieks and cries that fill the air;
She only, who should make me merry,
Hears not my prayer:
That I, alas! misfortune’s son and heir,
Hope in none other hope but in despair.
O unkind and cruel! If thus my death may please thee,
Then die I will to ease thee:
Yet if I die, the world will thee control,
And write upon my tomb, O sweet departure,
Lo! here lies one, alas! poor soul,
A true love’s martyr.

poem by John Wilbye
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Ye that do live in pleasures

Ye that do live in pleasures plenty,
and dwell in Music's sweetest Airs,
whose eyes are quick, whose ears are dainty,
not clogg'd with earth or worldly cares,
come sing this song, made in Amphion's praise,
who now is dead, yet you his fame can raise.

Call him again, let him not die,
but live in Music's sweetest breath;
place him in fairest memory,
and let him triumph over death.
O sweetly sung, his living wish attend ye.
These were his words, 'The mirth of heav'n God send ye.'

poem by John Wilbye
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Softly, O! dropp mine eyes

Softly, O! dropp mine eyes, lest you be dry,
And make my heart with grief to melt and die.
Now pour out tears apace,
Now stay, O heavy case!
O sour sweet woe!
Alas! O grief! O joy! Why strive you so?
Can griefs and joys at once in one poor heart consent?
Then sigh and sing, rejoice, lament.
Ah me! O passions strange and violent!
Was never poor wretch so tormented:
Nor joy, nor grief can make my heart contented.
For while with joy I look on high,
Down, down I fall with grief, and die.

poem by John Wilbye
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