24

THOMAS nashe.

WINTER, PLAGUE, AND PESTILENCE.

AUTUMN hath all the summer's fruitful treasure;

Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure! Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace : Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face? Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, And here we lie, God knows, with little ease.

From winter, plague and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us!

London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn !
Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born!
The want of term is town and city's harm;
Close chambers we do want to keep us warm.
Long banished must we live from our friends:
This low-built house will bring us to our ends.
From winter, plague and pestilence, good Lord,
deliver us !

DEATH'S SUMMONS.

ADIEU; farewell earth's bliss,

This world uncertain is :

Fond are life's lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly :
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made ;
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower,

Which wrinkles will devour :
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye;
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

WHO

SILVIA.

is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness;
And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling ;
She excels each mortal thing,
Upon the dull earth dwelling :
To her let us garlands bring.

From Love's Labour's Lost.

THE RHYME OF WHITE AND RED.

IF she be made of white and red,

Her faults will ne'er be known, For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, And fears by pale white shown: Then if she fear, or be to blame,

By this you shall not know,

For still her cheeks possess the same,
Which native she doth owe.1

28

WILLIAM shakespeare.

IF

BIRON'S CANZONET.

F love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove ; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers

bowed.

Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would com

prehend;

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee com

mend,

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder ; (Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire ;) Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,

Which, not to anger bent, is music, and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, oh, pardon love this wrong,

That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue!