"Here lieth unhappy Harpalus,
"By cruel love now flain,
"Whom Phillida unjustly thus

"Hath murder'd with difdain!"

FROM GAMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE,

DRINKING SONG.

I CANNOT eat but little meat,

My ftomach is not good;

But fure, I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.

Tho' I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a cold,

I ftuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and fide go bare, go bare,

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old.

I love no roaft but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread fhall do me ftead,

Much bread I nought defire.

No froft, no fnow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold,

I am fo wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd,
Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and fide, &c.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life

Loveth well good ale to feek,

Full oft drinks-fhe, till

ye may fee

The tears run down her cheek:

Then doth fhe troul to me the bowl,

Even as a malkworm should,
And faith, "Sweetheart, I took my part

Of this jolly good ale and old."

Back and fide, &c.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,

Even as good fellows should do; They fhall not mifs to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to.

And all poor fouls that have fcoured bowls, Or have them luftily troul'd,

God fave the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old.

Back and fide, &c.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

#

GEORGE GASCOIGNE.

A frange PASSION of a LOVER.

I LAUGH fometimes with little luft;
So jeft I oft, and feel no joye;
Mine eafe is builded all on trust,

And yet miftruft breeds mine annoye.
I live and lack, I lack and have,
I have, and mifs the thing I crave.

Then like the lark, that paft the night
In heavy fleep with cares oppreft,
Yet when she spies the pleasant light,

She fends fweet notes from out her breaft;

So fing I now, because I think

How joys approach when forrows fhrink,

And as fair Philomene again

Can watch and fing when others fleep,

And taketh pleasure in her pain,

The which to thee, dear wench, I write,

That know'ft my mirth, but not my moan;

I pray God grant thee deep delight,
To live in joys when I am gone.

I cannot live; it will not be,

I die to think to part from thee,

aullant.