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Ayres and dialogues

For One, Two, and Three Voyces. By Henry Lawes ... The First Booke

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[dedication]
 
To Mr. HENRY LAWES, who had then newly set a Song of mine in the Year, 1635.
 
To his Honour'd F. Mr. HENRY LAWES, on his Ayres and Dialogues.
 
To the much honour'd Mr. HENRY LAVVES, on his Book of Ayres.
 
To his much honour'd F. Mr. HENRY LAWES, on his Book of Ayres.
 
To my ever honour'd Friend & Father, Mr. HENRY LAWES, on his Book of Ayres and Dialogues.
 
TO his Honour'd Friend, Mr. Henry Lawes, upon his Book of Ayres.
 
To my Honour'd Friend, Mr. Henry Lawes, upon his Book of Ayres.
 
To my Dear and Honour'd Friend, Mr. HENRY LAWES, upon his Incomparable Book of Songs.
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[Theseus, O Theseus, hark! but yet in vain]
 
[poem]
 
In the Person of a Lady to her inconstant servant.
 
To the same Lady, singing the former Song.
 
To Amarantha, To dishevell her haire.
 
The Reform'd Lover.
 
The Cælestiall Mistress.
 
Love above Beauty.
 
The Bud.
 
Cœlia singing.
 
Anacreon's Ode, call'd, The Lute, Englished and to be sung by a Basse alone.
 
Desperato's Banquet.
 
To Cælia, inviting her to Marriage.
 
Youth and Beauty.
 
Love and Musick.
 
An Anniversary on the Nuptials of John Earle of Bridgewater, July 22. 1652.
 
Staying in London after the Act for Banishment, and going to meet a Friend who fail'd the hour appoynted.
 
No Constancy in Man.
 
Beauties Eclyps'd.
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PASTORALL DIALOGUES.
 
A Dialogue betwixt Cordanus and Amoret, on a Lost Heart.
 
A Dialogue betwixt Time and a Pilgrime.
 
A Pastorall Dialogue betwixt Cleon and Cælia.
 
A Bacchanall.
 
Upon a Crown'd Heart sent to a Cruell Mistress.
 
The fickle state of Lovers.
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Heere beginneth short Ayres for one, two or three Voyces.
 
A Smile, or Frown.
 
The Captive Lover.
 
To a Lady putting off her veile.
 
In praise of his Mistress.
 
To a Lady weeping.
 
[Grieve not, dear Love, although we often part]
 
A caution to faire Ladies.

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19

To a Lady putting off her veile.

Keep on your veile & hide your eye,
for with beholding you I dye,
your fatall Beauty Gorgon like,
dead with astonishment will strike,
your piercing eyes, if them I see,
are worse then Basilisks to me.
Hide from my sight those Hils of Snow,
Their melting Vally do not show;
Those Azure paths lead to dispair,
O vex me not, forbear, forbear;
For while I thus in torments dwell
The sight of Heav'n is worse then Hell.
Your dainty voice and warbling breath
Sounds like a sentence past for death,
Your dangling tresses are become
Like Instruments of finall doome;
O if an Angell torture so!
When life is done, where shall I go?
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