C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Song: Ye Little birds that sit and sing
By Thomas Heywood (c. 15701641)
Y
Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phyllis sweetly walks,
Within her garden alleys;
Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.
As you by me are bidden;
To her is only known my love,
Which from the world is hidden.
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so;
See that your notes strain not too low,
For still methinks I see her frown:
Ye pretty wantons, warble.
And sing, I am her lover;
Strain loud and sweet, that ev’ry note
With sweet content may move her.
And she that hath the sweetest voice
Tell her I will not change my choice;
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown:
Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Into a pretty slumber!
Sing round about her rosy bed,
That waking she may wonder.
Say to her, ’tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you:
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warbling.