(John Dowland) [Extract from a letter to Sir Robert Cecil...]
(John Dowland) Come again! sweet love doth now invite Thy graces that refrain To do me due delight, To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die, With
(John Dowland) Cleare or cloudie sweet as April showring, Smooth or frowning so is hir face to mee, Pleasd or smiling like milde May all flowring, When
o'ercome her will Thy love will be thus fruitless ever Was I so base, that I might not aspire Unto those high joys which she holds from me? As they are
of love. Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true. Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again, My trifles come as treasures from my mind
(John Dowland) (Instrumental)
(John Dowland) Come heavy sleepe the image of true death; And close up these my weary weeping eyes: Whose spring of tears doth stop my vitall breath
(John Dowland) Flow my teares fall from your springs, Exilde for ever: Let me morne Where nights black bird hir sad infamy sings, There let me live
(Robert Johnson) Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of snow Before the soil hath smutched
(John Dowland) In darkness let me dwell; the ground shall sorrow be, The roof despair, to bar all cheerful light from me; The walls of marble black,
have tops, the ant her gall The fly her spleen, the little spark his heat; The slender hairs cast shadows, through but small, And bees have stings, although