John Wilbye (7 March 1574 - September 1638 / Brome, Suffolk)
As fair as morn
As fair as morn, as fresh as May,
a pretty grace in saying nay,
Smil'st thou sweetheart?
then sing and say, Ta na na no,
But O! that love enchanting eye,
Lo, here my doubtful doom I try,
Tell me my sweet, live I or die?
She smiles, fa la la la,
Ah, she frowns, Ay me, I die.
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- Ah! cannot sighs not tears
- Ah! cruel Amarillis
- Alas what hope of speeding
- Alas! What a wretched life is this!
- All pleasure is of this condition
- And though my love abounding
- As fair as morn
- As matchless beauty
- Away, thou shalt not love me
- Ay me; can every rumour
- Change me, O heav'ns
- Cruel, behold my heavy ending
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