EACH THING HURT OF ITSELF

WH

HY fearest thou thy outward foe, When thou thyself thy harm dost feed? Of grief, or hurt, of pain, or woe,

Within each thing is sown a seed.

So fine was never yet the cloth,
No smith so hard his iron did beat,
But the one consumèd was with moth,
The other with canker all to fret.

The knotty oak and wainscoat old
Within doth eat the silly worm :

Even so a mind in envy roll'd
Always within itself doth burn.

Thus every thing that Nature wrought
Within itself his hurt doth bear:
No outward harm need to be sought
Whose enemies be within so near.

OF A ROSEMARY-BRANCH SENT

SUCH

UCH green to me as you have sent,
Such green to you I send again :
A flowering heart that will not faint
For dread of hope or loss of gain :
A steadfast thought all wholly bent

So that he may your grace obtain,
As you by proof have always seen,
To live your own, and always green.

OF THE CHOICE OF A WIFE

THE

HE flickering fame that flieth from ear to ear, And aye her strength increaseth with her flight, Gives first the cause why men delight to hear

Of those whom she doth note for beauty bright: And with this fame that flieth on so fast Fancy doth hie when reason makes no haste.

And yet, not so content, they wish to espy

And thereby know if fame have said aright: More trusting to the trial of their eye

Than to the bruit that goes of any wight: Wise in that point that lightly will not leave, Unwise to seek that may them after grieve.

Who knoweth not how sight may love allure
And kindle in the heart a hot desire,
The eye to work that fame could not procure :
Of greater cause there cometh hotter fire:
For, ere he weet, himself he feeleth warm,
The fame and eye the causers of his harm.

Let fame not make her known whom I shall know, Nor yet mine eye, therein to be my guide: Sufficeth me that virtue in her grow

Whose simple life her father's walls do hide. Content with this, I leave the rest to go:

And in such choice shall stand my wealth and woe.

OTHERS PREFERRED

OME men would think of right to have

SOME

For their true meaning some reward: But while that I do cry and crave,

I see that other be preferr'd.

I gape for that I am debarr'd;
I fare as doth the hound at hatch :
The worse I speed, the longer watch.

My wasteful will is tried by trust,

My fond fancy is mine abuse;
For that I would refrain my lust,-

For mine avail I can not choose:
A will, and yet no power to use ;
A will,- no will by reason just,
Since my will is at others' must.

They eat the honey, I hold the hive;
I sow the seed, they reap the corn;
I waste, they win; I draw, they drive ;

Theirs is the thank, mine is the scorn;

I seek, they speed, in waste my wind is worn; I gape, they get, and greedily I snatch,

Till worse I speed, the longer watch.

I fast, they feed; they drink, I thirst;
They laugh, I wail; they joy, I mourn;
They gain, I lose, I have the worst ;

They whole, I sick; they cold, I burn;
They leap, I lie; they sleep, I toss and turn;

I would, they may; I crave, they have at will:
That helpeth them (lo! cruelty) doth me kill.

NO JOY HAVE I

NO JOY HAVE I, but live in heaviness :

My Dame of price bereft by Fortune's cruelness, My hap is turned to unhappiness:

Unhappy I am unless I find relesse.

My pastime past, my youth-like years are gone, My months of mirth, my glistering days of gladsomeness, My times of triumph turned into moan : Unhappy I am unless I find relesse.

My wonted wind to chaunt my cheerful chance Doth sigh that song sometime the ballad of my lesse ; My sobs my sore and sorrow do advance : Unhappy I am unless I find relesse.

I mourn my mirth for grief that it is gone,-
I mourn my mirth whereof my musing mindfulness
Is ground of greater grief that grows thereon:
Unhappy I am unless I find relesse.

No joy have I for Fortune frowardly
Hath bent her brows, hath put her hand to cruelness,
Hath wrest my Dame, constrained me to cry-
Unhappy I am unless I find relesse.

TH

OF THE GOLDEN MEAN

HE wisest way thy boat in wave and wind to guie Is neither still the trade of middle stream to try Ne, warily shunning wreck by weather, aye too nigh To press upon the perilous shore.

Both cleanly flees he filth, ne wonnes a wretched wight In carlish coat, and careful court (aye thrall to spite) With port of proud estate he leaves, who doth delight Of golden mean to hold the lore.

Storms rifest rend the sturdy stout pine-apple tree:
Of lofty ruing towers the falls the feller be;

Most fierce doth lightning light where farthest we do see
The hills, the valley to forsake.

Well furnish'd breast to bide each chance's changeful cheer
In woe hath cheerful hope, in weal hath warefull fear :
One self Jove winter makes with loathful looks appear
That can by course the same aslake.

What if into mishap the case now casten be,
It forceth not such form of luck to last to thee:
Not alway bent is Phoebus' bow; his harp and he
Ceased silver sound sometime doth raise.

In hardest hap use help of hardy hopeful heart;
Seem bold, to bear the brunt of fortune overthwart ;
Eke wisely, when fore-wind to full breathes on thy part,
'Suage swelling sail, and doubt decays!