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

"Hath murder'd with disdain!”

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 fend 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 seek,
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, 66

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 fhould do; They fhall not miss to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to.

And all poor fouls that have scoured 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 ease is builded all on truft,

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

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

She fends sweet notes from out her breast:

So fing I now, because I think

How joys approach when forrows shrink.

And as fair Philomene again

Can watch and fing when others sleep, And taketh pleasure in her pain,

Το

wray the woe that makes her weep:

So fing I now, for to bewray

The loathfome life I lead alway.

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.