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, As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, 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: 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, Experience, which alone repentance brings, And love low placed is base and apt to change. O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness, 462. MY Man's Civil War Sir P. Sidney Y hovering thoughts would fly to heaven. Fain would my ship in Virtue's shore But mounting thoughts are haled down When inward eye to heavenly sights Would to her perch my thoughts retire, 463. Fond Fancy trains to Pleasure's lure, Yet Sense would win me to the shrine. Where Reason loathes, there Fancy loves, Foes senses are to Virtue's lore, Need craves consent of soul to sense, O cruel fight! where fighting friend Dame Pleasure's drugs are steeped in sin, 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 Who then to frail mortality shall trust Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, Courts are but only superficial schools The rural part is turned into a den And where's a city from foul vice so free Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Those that live single take it for a curse, These would have children; those that have them moan What is it then, to have, or have no wife, Our own affections still at home to please, To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die? Francis, Lord Bacon |