8 Her rosial colour comes and goes

With such a comely grace,

More ruddier, too, than doth the rose,
Within her lively face.

9 At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street,

Nor gadding, as astray.

10 The modest mirth that she doth use,
Is mix'd with shamefastness;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.

11 O Lord, it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,

And deck in her such honesty,
Whom Nature made so fair.

12 Truly she doth as far exceed
Our women now-a-days,
As doth the gilliflower a weed,
And more a thousand ways.

13 How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?

For all the rest are plain but chaff
Which seem good corn to be.

14 This gift alone I shall her give,

When death doth what he can:
Her honest fame shall ever live

Within the mouth of man.

THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN, SAVE

ONLY THE LOVER.

1 I see there is no sort

Of things that live in grief,
Which at sometime may not resort
Where as they have relief.

4 The coney hath its cave,

The little bird his nest,

From heat and cold themselves to save

At all times as they list.

5 The owl, with feeble sight,
Lies lurking in the leaves.
The sparrow in the frosty night
May shroud her in the eaves.

6 But woe to me, alas!

In sun nor yet in shade,
I cannot find a resting-place,
My burden to unlade.

7 But day by day still bears

The burden on my back,

With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears,
To hold my hope aback.

O Night, O jealous Night, repugnant to my pleasure,
O Night so long desired, yet cross to my content,
There's none but only thou can guide me to my treasure,
Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.

Sweet Night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till

to-morrow,

Whose joy, in lack so long, a hell of torment breeds, Sweet Night, sweet gentle Night, do not prolong my

sorrow,

Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs.

Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining,
Let them that miss the way be guided by the light,
I know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining,
Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night.

Dame Cynthia, couch a while; hold in thy horns for shining,

And glad not low'ring Night with thy too glorious rays; But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining, That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise.

And when my will is done, then, Cynthia, shine, good lady,
All other nights and days in honour of that night,
That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady,
Wherein my love had that lighted my delight.

eyes

FROM THE SAME.

1 The gentle season of the year

Hath made my blooming branch appear,
And beautified the land with flowers;
The air doth savour with delight,
The heavens do smile to see the sight,
And yet mine
eyes augment their showers.

2 The meads are mantled all with green,
The trembling leaves have clothed the treen,
The birds with feathers new do sing;

But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack,
Attire myself in mourning black,
Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.

3 And as you see the scarlet rose

In his sweet prime his buds disclose,
Whose hue is with the sun revived;
So, in the April of mine age,
My lively colours do assuage,
Because my sunshine is deprived.

4 My heart, that wonted was of yore,
Light as the winds, abroad to soar
Amongst the buds, when beauty springs,
Now only hovers over you,

As doth the bird that's taken new,

And mourns when all her neighbours sings.

5 When every man is bent to sport,
Then, pensive, I alone resort
Into some solitary walk,

As doth the doleful turtle-dove,
Who, having lost her faithful love,
Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk.

6 There to myself I do recount
How far my woes my joys surmount,
How love requiteth me with hate,
How all my pleasures end in pain,
How hate doth say my hope is vain,
How fortune frowns upon my state.

7 And in this mood, charged with despair,
With vapour'd sighs I dim the air,
And to the gods make this request,
That by the ending of my

life,

I may have truce with this strange strife, And bring my soul to better rest.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

1 Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand,

Fear not to touch the best,

The truth shall be thy warrant;
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

2 Go tell the Court it glows,

And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the Church it shows
What's good and doth no good;