But soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.

If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armour should not be;
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the camp of Love.
But fools do live and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.

When timely death my life and fortune ends,

Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends;
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come

And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb:
And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light,

And crown with love my ever-during night.

1601.

ROSE-CHEEKED LAURA, COME

Rose-cheeked Laura, come;

Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other

Sweetly gracing.

Lovely forms do flow

From concent divinely framèd;

Heav'n is music, and thy beauty's

Birth is heavenly.

These dull notes we sing

Discords need for helps to grace them;

Only beauty, purely loving,

Knows no discord,

But still moves delight,

Like clear springs renewed by flowing,

Ever perfect, ever in them

Selves eternal.

THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT

The man of life upright

Whose guiltless heart is free

From all dishonest deeds

Or thought of vanity;

1502.

The man whose silent days

In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude
Nor sorrow discontent;

That man needs neither towers

Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly

From thunder's violence.

He only can behold

With unaffrighted eyes

The horrors of the deep

And terrors of the skies.

Thus scorning all the cares

That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,

His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends;
His wealth a well-spent age;

The earth his sober inn

And quiet pilgrimage.

About 1613.

JACK AND JOAN, THEY THINK NO ILL

Jack and Joan, they think no ill,

But loving live, and merry still;

Do their week-days' work, and pray

Devoutly on the holy-day;

Skip and trip it on the green,

And help to choose the Summer Queen;

Lash out at a country feast

Their silver penny with the best.

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Well can they judge of nappy ale,

And tell at large a winter tale;

ΙΟ

Climb up to the apple loft,

And turn the crabs till they be soft.

Tib is all the father's joy,

And little Tom the mother's boy.

All their pleasure is content;

And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows,

And deck her windows with green boughs;

She can wreaths and tutties make,
And trim with plums a bridal cake.
Jack knows what brings gain or loss,
And his long flail can stoutly toss;
Makes the hedge which others break,
And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights,
That study only strange delights,
Though you scorn the homespun gray
And revel in your rich array,
Though your tongues dissemble deep
And can your heads from danger keep,
Yet, for all your pomp and train,
Securer lives the silly swain.

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About 1613.

NEVER WEATHER-BEATEN SAIL

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,

Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more,

Than my weary sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast. O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high paradise:
Cold age deafs not there our ears, nor vapour dims our eyes;
Glory there the sun outshines, whose beams the blessed only see.
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to thee!

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About 1613.

NOW WINTER NIGHTS ENLARGE

Now winter nights enlarge

The number of their hours,

And clouds their storms discharge

Upon the airy towers.

Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o'erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.

5

Now yellow waxen lights

Shall wait on honey love,

While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights

Sleep's leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well:.
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.

The summer hath his joys,

And winter his delights;

Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.

About 1617.

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GOOD WIFE

What is it all that men possess, among themselves conversing?
Wealth or fame or some such boast, scarce worthy the rehearsing.
Women only are men's good, with them in love conversing.
If weary, they prepare us rest; if sick, their hand attends us;
When with grief our hearts are pressed, their comfort best

befriends us;

Sweet or sour, they willing go to share what fortune sends us. What pretty babes with pain they bear, our name and form

presenting.

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What we get, how wise they keep, by sparing, wants preventing,
Sorting all their household cares to our observed contenting.
All this, of whose large use I sing, in two words is expressèd: 10
Good wife is the good I praise, if by good men possessed;
Bad with bad in ill suit well, but good with good live blessed.

About 1617.

THRICE TOSS THESE OAKEN ASHES IN THE AIR

Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,

Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair,

And thrice three times tie up this true-love's knot,
And murmur soft, "She will or she will not."

Go burn these poisoned weeds in yon blue fire,
These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar,
This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave,
That all thy fears and cares an end may have.

Then come, you fairies, dance with me a round;
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound.—
In vain are all the charms I can devise:
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

About 1617.

SHALL I, THEN, HOPE WHEN FAITH IS FLED

Shall I, then, hope when faith is fled?
Can I seek love when hope is gone?
Or can I live when love is dead?

Poorly he lives that can love none.

Her vows are broke, and I am free:
She lost her faith in losing me.

When I compare mine own events,
When I weigh others' like annoy,
All do but heap up discontents
That on a beauty build their joy.

Thus I of all complain, since she
All faith hath lost in losing me.

So my dear freedom have I gained,
Through her unkindness and disgrace;
Yet could I ever live enchained,

As she my service did embrace.

But she is changed, and I am free:
Faith failing her, love died in me.

About 1617.

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