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If the one be past,
The other doth waste,

And all for lack of liberty.
And so I drive,
As yet alive,
Although I strive

With misery;
Drawing my breath,
Looking for death,

And loss of life for liberty.
But thou that still
May'st at thy will,
Turn all this ill

Adversity;
For the repair
Of my welfare,

Grant me but life and liberty.
And if not so,
Then let all go
To wretched woe,

And let me die :
For th' one or th’ other-
There is none other-

My death, or life with liberty!

THE LOVER COMFORTETH HIMSELF WITH THE

WORTHINESS OF HIS LOVE.

The FARL of SURREY, born 1516, died 1547,
WHEN raging love with extreme pain

Most cruelly distrains my heart;
When that my tears, as floods of rain,
Bear witness of

my

woful smart; When sighs have wasted so my breath, That I lie at the point of death,

I call to mind the

navy great
That the Greeks brought to Troy town;
And how the boisterous winds did beat

Their ships, and rent their sails adown;

Till Agamemnon's daughter's blood
Appeas'd the gods that them withstood:

And how that in those ten years' war
Full

many bloody deed was done;
And many a lord that came full far

There caught his bane, alas, too soon!
And many a good knight overrun
Before the Greeks and Helen won.
Then think I thus : “ Sith such repair

So long time war of valiant men
Was all to win a lady fair,

Shall I not learn to suffer then,
And think my life well spent to be
Serving a worthier wight than she?
Therefore I never will repent,

But pains contented still endure:
For like as when, rough winter spent,

The pleasing spring straight draweth in ure;*
So, after raging storms of care,
Joyful at length may be my fare."

GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS.

The EARL of SURREY.

GIVE place, ye lovers, here before

That spent your boasts and brags in vain;
My lady's beauty passeth more

The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sun the candlelight,
Or brightest day the darkest night;

And thereto hath a troth as just

As had Penelope the fair ;
For what she saith ye may it trust,

As it by writing sealed were;-
And yirtues hath she many mo'
Than I with pen have skill to show.

* Ure-fortune-destiny; a word used by Chaucer and other early writers.

I could rehearse, if that I would,

The whole effect of Nature's plaint,
When she had lost the perfect mould,

The like to whom she could not paint.
With wringing hands, how did she cry!
And what she said, I know it aye.

I know she swore, with raging mind,

Her kingdom only set apart,
There was no loss by law of kind

That could have gone so near her heart;
And this was chiefly all her pain,-
“She could not make the like again.”

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise

To be the chiefest work she wrought,
In faith, methink, some better ways

On your behalf might well be sought,
Than to compare, as ye have done,
To match the candle with the sun.

The idea in the third and fourth stanzas of this song, " that Nature lost the perfect mould,” has been a favourite one with all song-writers and poets, and is to be found in the literature of all European nations.

IN AN ARBOUR GREEN.

From the Morality of " Lusty Juventus," printed in the reign of Edward V..

In an arbour green, asleep where as I lay,
The birds sang sweet in the middle of the day;
I dreamed fast of mirth and play:

In youth is pleasure.

Methought I walked still to and fro,
And from her company could not go;
But when I waked it was not so:

In youth is pleasure.

Therefore my heart is sorely plight
Of her alone to have a sight,
Which is my joy and heart's delight;

In youth is pleasure.

[graphic][merged small]

Anonymous. Originally printed in 1569-70, in ballad form, on a broadside in

black-letter,

LOVE me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song:
Love that is too hot and strong

Burneth soon to waste.
Still I would not have thee cold,
Not too backward or too bold;
Love that lasteth till 'tis old

Fadeth not in haste.
Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song.

If thou lovest me too much,
It will not prove as true as touch ;
Love me little, more than such,

For I fear the end.
I am with little well content,
And a little from thee sent
Is enough, with true intent,

To be steadfast friend.
Love me little, love me long, &c.

Say thou lov'st me while thou live,
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive

While that life endures :

Nay, and after death, in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth,
As now, when in my May of youth,

This
my

love assures.
Love me little, love me long, &c.

Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through life persever ;
Give me that, with true endeavour

I will it restore.
A suit of durance let it be,
For all weathers; that for me,
For the land or for the sea,

Lasting evermore.
Love me little, love me long, &c.

Winter's cold or summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests on it beat,
It can never know defeat,

Never can rebel.
Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love, I tell thee plain,
Thou must give, or woo in vain;

So to thee farewell.
Love me little, love me long, &c.

IF WOMEN COULD BE FAIR.

From BYRD'S “Songs and Sonnets,” 1588,

IF women could be fair and never fond,

Or that their beauty might continue still,
I would not marvel though they made men bond,

By service long, to purchase their good will ;
But when I see how frail these creatures are,
I laugh that men forget themselves so far :

To mark what choice they make, and how they change;

How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still ;

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