John Wilbye Poems

Ay me; can every rumour
Thus start my lady's humour?
Name ye some gallant to her
Why straight forsooth I woo her
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Change me, O heav'ns, into the ruby stone,
That on my love's fair locks doth hang in gold:
Yet leave me speech, to her to make my moan;
And give me eyes, her beauties to behold.
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Die, hapless man, since she denies thee grace,
Die, and despair, sith she doth scorn to love thee.
Farewell, most fair, tho' thou dost fair deface,
Sith for my duteous love thou dost reprove me
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Down in a valley as Alexis trips,
Daphne sat sweetly sleeping.
Soon as the wanton touch’d her ruddy lips,
She nicely falls aweeping.
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Dear pity, how, ah! how, wouldst thou become her!
That best becometh beauty's best attiring;
Shall my desert deserve no favour from her?
But still to waste myself in deep adminring
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A silly sylvan, kissing heav'n-born fire,
Scorched his lips for his so fond desire:
I, not so fond, but gaz'd whilst such fire burned,
And all my heart straight into flames was turned.
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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
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And though my love abounding,
Did make me fall a sounding,
Yet am I well contented,
Still so to be tormented,
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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,
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O fools! can you not see a traffic nearer,
In my sweet lady's face, where nature showeth
Whatever treasure eye sees or heart knoweth,
Rubies and diamonds dainty,
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