Classic Love Poems
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John Wilbye (1574-1638) was a famous English madrigal composer. He wrote one poem, Love Not Me for Comely Grace, and two volumes of madrigals including Weep, Weep O Mine Eyes and Draw On, Sweet Night, which have long been favorites and are often included in modern collections. It is thought that he accompanied his neighbor Elizabeth Cornwallis to Hengrave Hall around 1594, when she married Sir Thomas Kytson the Younger. On her death in 1628, Wilbye went to live with Elizabeth’s daughter Mary Darcy, Countess Rivers in Colchester.
“A Young Englishwoman,”
costume study
by Hans Holbein the Younger,
circa mid-1500s
Lady Kytson
Lady Rivers
Lord and Lady Kytson were patrons of the arts, and John Wilbye was continually encouraged to provide madrigals and musical instruction for them. When Lady Kytson died in 1628, Wilybe moved into the home of her younger daughter, Lady Rivers, in Colchester.
Love Not Me for Comely Grace
Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part:
No, nor for a constant heart!
For these may fail or turn to ill:
Should thou and I sever.
Keep, therefore, a true woman’s eye,
And love me still, but know not why!
So hast thou the same reason still
To dote upon me ever.
Lady, When I Behold the Roses Sprouting
Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting,
Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,
And then behold your lips, where sweet love harbours,
My eyes present me with a double doubting.
For, viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes
Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.
Oft Have I Vow’d How Dearly I Did Love Thee
Oft have I vow’d how dearly I did love thee,
And oft observ’d thee with all willing duty,
Sighs I have sent, still hoping to remove thee:
Millions of tears I tender’d to thy beauty,
Yet thou of sighs and silly tears regardless,
Suff’rest my feeble heart to pine with anguish,
Whilst all my barren hopes return rewardless,
My bitter days do waste, and I do languish.
Lady, Your Words Do Spite Me
Lady, your words do spite me,
Yet your sweet lips so soft,
Kiss and delight me:
Your deeds my heart surcharged with over joying,
Your taunts my life destroying.
Since both have force to spill me,
Let kisses sweet, sweet kill me.
Knights fight with swords and lances,
Fight you with smiling glances,
So like Swans of Leander,
My ghost from hence shall wander.
Singing and dying,
Singing and dying.
on “Wilbye, John”
