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She sighed sore and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest,

That would not cease but crièd still, in sucking at her breast.

She was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child, She rocked it and rated it, till that on her it smiled..

Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove,

The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.

Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write,
In register for to remain of such a worthy wight:

As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat,
Much matter utter'd she of weight, in place whereas she sat:
And proved plain there was no beast, nor creature bearing

life,

Could well be known to live in love without discord and strife:

Then kissed she her little babe, and sware by God above, The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.

She said that neither king nor prince nor lord could live aright,

Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might.

When manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no

place,

Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, And left their force that failed them, which did consume

the rout,

That might before have lived their time, their strength and

nature out:

Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her

reprove,

The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.

She said she saw no fish nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt,

That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt : Since flesh might not endure, but rest must wrath succeed, And force the fight to fall to play in pasture where they feed, So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: Thus in song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.

I marvel much pardy (quoth she) for to behold the rout, To see man, woman, boy and beast, to toss the world about: Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some check, and some can smoothly smile,

And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile,

Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some

stout,

Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out:
Thus ended she her song and said, before she did remove,
The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.
R. Edwardes

461.

O Sweet Woods

SWEET woods, the delight of solitariness, O, how much do I love your solitariness! From fame's desire, from love's delight retired, In these sad groves an hermit's life I led;

And those false pleasures which I once admired,
With sad remembrance of my fall, I dread.
To birds, to trees, to earth, impart I this,
For she less secret and as senseless is.

Experience, which alone repentance brings,
Doth bid me now my heart from love estrange:
Love is disdained when it doth look at kings,

And love low placed is base and apt to change.
Their power doth take from him his liberty,
Her want of worth makes him in cradle die.

O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness,
O, how much do I love your solitariness!

462.

MY

Man's Civil War

Sir P. Sidney

Y hovering thoughts would fly to heaven.
And quiet nestle in the sky,

Fain would my ship in Virtue's shore
Without remove at anchor lie.

But mounting thoughts are haled down
With heavy poise of mortal load,
And blustring storms deny my ship
In Virtue's haven secure abode.

When inward eye to heavenly sights
Doth draw my longing heart's desire,
The world with jesses of delights

Would to her perch my thoughts retire,

463.

Fond Fancy trains to Pleasure's lure,
Though Reason stiffly do repine;
Though Wisdom woo me to the saint,

Yet Sense would win me to the shrine.

Where Reason loathes, there Fancy loves,
And overrules the captive will;

Foes senses are to Virtue's lore,
They draw the wit their wish to fill.

Need craves consent of soul to sense,
Yet divers bents breed civil fray;
Hard hap where halves must disagree,
Or truce of halves the whole betray!

O cruel fight! where fighting friend
With love doth kill a favouring foe,
Where peace with sense is war with God,
And self-delight the seed of woe!

Dame Pleasure's drugs are steeped in sin,
Their sugared taste doth breed annoy;
O fickle sense! beware her gin,

Sell not thy soul to brittle joy!

R. Southwell

The World

THE world's a bubble; and the life of Man

Less than a span:

In his conception wretched from the womb

So to the tomb;

Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools;

The rural part is turned into a den
Of savage men;

And where's a city from foul vice so free
But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
Or pains his head:

Those that live single take it for a curse,
Or do things worse:

These would have children; those that have them moan
Or wish them gone:

What is it then, to have, or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affections still at home to please,
Is a disease;

To cross the seas to any foreign soil,
Peril and toil;

Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
We're worse in peace:

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What then remains, but that we still should cry

For being born, or, being born, to die?

Francis, Lord Bacon

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