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THOMAS NASHE [1567-1601]

SPRING

SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

Spring! the sweet Spring!

[From SUMMER'S LAST WILL.]

THOMAS CAMPION [1567?-1619]

CHERRY-RIPE

THERE is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow2:

There cherries grow which none may buy
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,

1 flowers of the hawthorn.

2 flower (verb).

Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds filled with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;

Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand

Those sacred cherries to come nigh
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

WHEN TO HER LUTE CORINNA SINGS

WHEN to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear,
As any challenged echo clear:

But when she doth of mourning speak,
E'en with her sighs, the strings do break,
And as her lute doth live or die,

Led by her passion, so must I:

For when of pleasure she doth sing,

My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring,

But if she doth of sorrow speak,

E'en from my heart the strings do break.

A RENUNCIATION

THOU art not fair, for all thy red and white,
For all those rosy ornaments in thee,-

Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,
Nor fair, nor sweet-unless thou pity me!

I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove
That beauty is no beauty without love.

Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure

My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine: Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,

I'll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine. Now show it, if thou be a woman right— Embrace and kiss and love me in despite!

THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT

THE man of life upright,

Whose guiltless heart is free

From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity;

The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude
Nor sorrow discontent:

That man needs neither towers

Nor armour for defence,

Nor secret vaults to fly

From thunder's violence.

He only can behold

With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep

And terrors of the skies.

Thus scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn

And quiet pilgrimage.

SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI

COME, cheerful day, part of my life to me;
For while thou view'st me with thy fading light
Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
And I still onward haste to my last night:
Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly-
So every day we live, a day we die.

But O ye nights, ordained for barren rest,
How are my days deprived of life in you
When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,
By feigned death life sweetly to renew!
Part of my life in that, you life deny:
So every day we live, a day we die.

SIR HENRY WOTTON [1568-1639]

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE

How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend—

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And, having nothing, yet hath all.

SIR JOHN DAVIES [1569-1626]

TRUE KNOWLEDGE OF THE SOUL

THOU! that hast fashioned twice this soul of ours,
So that she is by double title Thine!

Thou only knowst her nature and her powers;
Her subtle form Thou only canst define!

To judge herself, she must herself transcend;
As greater circles comprehend the less;

But she wants power her own powers to extend;
As fettered men cannot their strength express.

But Thou, bright morning Star!' Thou, rising Sun!
Which, in these later times, hast brought to light
Those mysteries that, since the world begun,
Lay hid in darkness and eternal night—

Thou, like the sun, dost with indifferent ray
Into the palace and the cottage shine,

And showst the soul, both to the clerk and lay,
By the clear lamp of thy oracle Divine?

1 See Revelation xxii, 16.

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