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And some do love the common sort,
Look not too high,
But, high or low, Ye may
be sure she is a shrew.
But, sirs, I use to tell no tales ;
say That every woman causeth wo:
That were too broad : Who lov'th not venom must shun the toad.
Who useth still the truth to tell
Thousands were good;
Most are well bent; I must say so, lest I be shent.
The Herdman's Happy Life. *
[From "Sonets and Pastorales" included in “ Psalmes,
“ Sonets, and Songs of Sadnes and Pietie, made into “musicke of five partes." By W. Byrd, 1588.]
What pleasure have great princes
More dainty to their choice
In quiet life rejoice,
All day their flocks each tendeth,
At night they take their rest ;
His ship into the east,
For lawyers and their pleading,
They 'steem it not a straw ;
Is of itself a law :
* This title is from England's Helicon, in which the poem is said to be taken “ ont of M. Bird's Set Songs." 1 “ Fate not fearing” Eng. Hel. VOL. II.
Where conscience judgeth plainly,
O happy who thus liveth,
Not caring much for gold;
To keep him from the cold.
[At an annual Triumph, held in honour of Queen Elizabeth,
Nov. 17, 1590, in the Tilt-yard, Westminster, the following verses were “ pronounced and sung by M. Hales, her “ Majesty's servant, a gentleman in that art excellent, and “ for his voice both commendableand admirable." Segar's “ Honor, Military and Civill,” 1602. fol. c. 54. p. 198.]
My golden locks time hath to silver turn'd,
(Oh time too swift, and swiftness never ceasing !) My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth hath
But spurn'd in vain : youth waneth by increa
sing. Beauty, and strength, and youth, flowers fading been, Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.
My helmet now shall make an hive for bees,
And lovers' songs shall turn to holy psalms :
A man at arms must now sit on his knees,
And feed on prayers, that are old age's alms.
And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
I'll teach my swains this carol for a song: 6 Blest be the hearts that think my sovereign well, 66 Curs'd be the souls that think to do her
“ wrong." Goddess ! vouchsafe this aged man his right, To be
that was your knight.
The sun, the season, in each thing
The paths where Amargana treads
The groves put on their rich array,
And sweet perfum'd with eglantine,
The silent river stays his course,
The woods at her fair sight rejoices,
Great Pan, our god, for her dear sake,
swain his chance doth prove,
All happiness let heaven her lend,
her attend; Thus bid me pray the Muses nine, Long live our lovely summer queen.