Flora gave me fairest flowers
Flora gave me fairest flowers,
None so fair in Flora's treasure:
These I plac'd on Phillis' bowers,
She was pleas'd, and she my pleasure
Smiling meadows seem to say,
Come ye wantons, here to play.
poem by John Wilbye
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Away, thou shalt not love me
Away, thou shalt not love me.
So shall my love seem greater
And I shall love the better.
Shall it be so? what say you?
Why speak you not I pray you?
Nay then I know you love me
That so you may disprove me.
poem by John Wilbye
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I fall, I fall
I fall, I fall, O stay me,
Dear love, with joys you slay me,
Of life your lips deprive me,
Sweet, let your lips revive me,
O whither are you hasting,
And leave my life thus wasting?
My health on you relying,
‘Twere sin to leave me dying.
poem by John Wilbye
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All pleasure is of this condition
All pleasure is of this condition,
It pricks men forward to fruition,
But if enjoy'd, then like the humming Bee,
The honey being shed, away doth flee;
But leaves a sting, that wounds the inward heart
With gnawing grief and never-ending smart.
poem by John Wilbye
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I love, alas! yet am not loved
I love, alas! yet am not loved,
For cruel she to pity is not moved.
My constant love with scorn she ill rewardeth,
Only my sighs a little she regardeth:
Yet more and more the quenchless fire increaseth,
Which, to my greater torment, never ceaseth.
poem by John Wilbye
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Happy, O happy he
Happy, O happy he, who not affecting
The endless toils attending worldly cares,
With mind repos'd, all discontents rejecting,
In silent peace his way to heav'n prepares;
Deeming his life a Scene, the world a Stage,
Whereon man acts his weary Pilgrimage.
poem by John Wilbye
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Unkind, O, stay thy flying!
Unkind, O, stay thy flying!
And if I needs must die, pity me dying.
But in thee, my heart is lying
And no death can assail me,
Alas! till life doth fail thee,
Oh therefore, if the fates bid thee be fleeting,
Stay for me, whose poor heart thou hast in keeping.
poem by John Wilbye
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Fly, Love, aloft
Fly, Love, aloft to heav'n and look out Fortune,
Then sweetly, sweetly, sweetly her importune,
That I from my Calisto best beloved
As you and she set down be never moved.
And, Love, to Carimel see you commend me,
Fortune for his sweet sake may chance befriend me.
poem by John Wilbye
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Despiteful thus unto myself, I languish
Despiteful thus unto myself, I languish,
And in disdain, myself from joy I banish,
These secret thoughts enwrap me so in anguish,
That life, I hope. will soon from body vanish;
And to some rest will quickly be conveyed,
That on no joy, while so I liv’d, hath stayed.
poem by John Wilbye
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Ay me; can every rumour
Ay me; can every rumour
Thus start my lady's humour?
Name ye some gallant to her
Why straight forsooth I woo her.
Then burst she forth in passion:
You men love but for fashion.
Yet sure I am that no man
Ever so loved woman.
Yet, alas, Love, be wary
For women be contrary.
poem by John Wilbye
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