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I saw the little boy,

In thought how oft that he
Did wish of God, to scape the rod,

(1503 - 1542.] A tall young man to be.

PLEASURE MIXED WITH PAIN. The young man eke that feels His bones with pains opprest,

VENOMOUS thorns that are so sharp and How he would be a rich old man,

keen To live and lie at rest:

Bear flowers, we see, full fresh and

fair of hue : The rich old man that sees

Poison is also put in medicine, His end draw on so sore,

And unto man his health doth oft How he would be a boy again,

renew. To live so much the more.

The fire that all things eke consumeth Whereat full oft I smiled,

clean, To see how all these three,

May hurt and heal: then if that this

be true, From boy to man, from man to boy, Would chop and change degree :

I trust some time my harm may be my

health, And musing thus, I think,

Since every woe is joined with some The case is very strange,

wealth. That man from wealth, to live in woe, Doth ever seek to change.

A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS Thus thoughtful as I lay,

HE WOULD LOVE. I saw my withered skin, How it doth show my dented thews, A Face that should content me wondrous The flesh was worn so thin;


Should not be fair, but lovely to behold And eke my toothless chaps,

With gladsome cheer, all grief for to exThe gates of my right way, That opes and shuts as I do speak, With sober looks so would I that it Do thus unto me say:


Speak without words, such words as “ The white and hoarish hairs,

none can tell; The messengers of age,

The tress also should be of crispéd gold. That show, like lines of true belief,

With wit and these, might chance I That this life doth assuage;

might be tied,

And knit again with knot that should "Bid thee lay hand, and feel

not slide. Them hanging on my chin. The which do write two ages past,

The third now coming in. “ Hang up, therefore, the bit Of thy young wanton time;

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. And thou that therein beaten art,

(1564 - 1593.) The happiest life define.”

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS Whereat I sighed, and said,

LOVE. “Farewell my wonted joy! Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me, Come live with me, and be my love, To every little boy ;

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That valleys, groves, and hills and fields, “ And tell them thus from me,

Wood or steepy mountain yields.
Their time most happy is,
If to their time they reason had, And we will sit upon the rocks,
To know the truth of this.”

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks


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By shallow rivers, to whose falls But could youth last, and love still breed, Melodious birds sing madrigals.

Had joys no date, nor age no need,

Then these delights my mind might move
And I will make thee beds of roses, To live with thee and be thy love.
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,

My staff of faith to walk upon;
Fair linéd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

My serip of joy, immortal diet;

My bottle of salvation; A belt of straw and ivy buds,

My gown of glory (hope's true gauge),

And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. With coral clasps and amber studs :

Blood must be my body's 'balmer, And if these pleasures may thee move,

Whilst my soul, a quiet Palmer, Come live with me, and be my love.

Travelleth towards the land of Heaven; The shepherd swains shall dance and No other balm will there be given.

Over the silver mountains, sing,

Where spring the nectar fountains,
For thy delight, each May-morning:

There will I kiss the bowl of bliss,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill;
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
Then, by that happy, blissful day,

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. That have cast off their rags of clay,

And walk apparelled fre

like me. (1552 - 1618.]



If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand !
Fear not to touch the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant :

Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain of cares to come.

Go, tell the court it glows,

And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the church it shows
What's good, and doth no good :

If church and court reply,
Then give thein both the lie.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields ;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

Tell potentates they live

Acting by others' actions;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by their factions:

If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition

That rule affairs of state,

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