By darkness would imprison on his way,
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day:
Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.
THE WORLD A GAME
This world a hunting is:
The prey, poor man; the Nimrod fierce is Death;
His speedy greyhounds are
Lust, sickness, envy, care,
Strife that ne'er falls amiss,
With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe.
Of these the eager chase,
Old Age with stealing pace
Casts up his nets, and there we panting die.
THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE
Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that Eternal Love.
O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
Than those smooth whisp'rings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalmed, which new-born flow'rs unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath !
How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights:
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.
SWEETER SCENTS THAN IN ARABIA FOUND
Then walked they to a grove but near at hand,
Where fiery Titan had but small command,
Because the leaves, conspiring, kept his beams,
For fear of hurting (when he's in extremes)
The under-flowers, which did enrich the ground
With sweeter scents than in Arabia found.
The earth doth yield (which they through pores exhale) Earth's best of odours, th' aromatical:
Like to that smell which oft our sense descries
Within a field which long unploughèd lies,
Somewhat before the setting of the sun;
And where the rainbow in the horizon
Doth pitch her tips; or as when in the prime,
The earth being troubled with a drought long time,
The hand of Heaven his spongy clouds doth strain,
And throws into her lap a shower of rain,
She sendeth up, conceivèd from the sun,
A sweet perfume and exhalation.
Not all the ointments brought from Delos' isle,
Nor from the confines of seven-headed Nile,
Nor that brought whence Phoenicians have abodes,
Nor Cyprus' wild vine-flowers, nor that of Rhodes,
Nor roses' oil from Naples, Capua,
Saffron confected in Silicia,
Nor that of quinces, nor of marjoram,
That ever from the isle of Coös came;
Nor these, nor any else, though ne'er so rare,
Could with this place for sweetest smells compare.
Then, as a nimble squirrel from the wood,
Ranging the hedges for his filberd-food,
Sits pertly on a bough, his brown nuts cracking,
And from the shell the sweet white kernel taking,
Till, with their crooks and bags, a sort of boys,
To share with him, come with so great a noise
That he is forced to leave a nut nigh broke,
And for his life leap to a neighbour oak,
Thence to a beech, thence to a row of ashes,
Whilst through the quagmires and red water-plashes
The boys run dabbling thorough thick and thin;
One tears his hose, another breaks his shin;
This, torn and tattered, hath with much ado
Got by the briers; and that hath lost his shoe;
This drops his band; that headlong falls for haste; 15
Another cries behind for being last;
With sticks and stones and many a sounding holloa,
The little fool, with no small sport, they follow,
Whilst he, from tree to tree, from spray to spray,
Gets to the wood, and hides him in his dray:
Such shift made Riot, ere he could get up;
And so from bough to bough he won the top,
Though hindrances, for ever coming there,
Were often thrust upon him by despair.
WALLA, THE FAIREST NYMPH
Fair was the day, but fairer was the maid
Who that day's morn into the greenwoods strayed.
Sweet was the air, but sweeter was her breathing;
Such rare perfumes the roses are bequeathing.
Bright shone the sun, but brighter were her eyes;
Such are the lamps that guide the deities;
Nay such the fire is whence the Pythian knight
Borrows his beams and lends his sister light.
Not Pelops' shoulder whiter than her hands,
Nor snowy swans that jet on Isca's sands;
Sweet Flora, as if ravished with their sight,
In emulation made all lilies white.
For, as I oft have heard the wood-nymphs say,
The dancing fairies, when they left to play,
Then back did pull them, and in holes of trees
Stole the sweet honey from the painful bees
(Which in the flower to put they oft were seen), And for a banquet brought it to their queen.
But she that is the goddess of the flowers,
Invited to their groves and shady bowers,
Misliked their choice. They said that all the field
No other flower did for that purpose yield.
"But," quoth a nimble fay that by did stand,
"If you could give't the colour of yond hand,"
(Walla by chance was in a meadow by,
Learning to sample earth's embroidery)
“It were a gift would Flora well befit,
And our great queen the more would honour it."
She gave consent, and by some other power
Made Venus' doves be equalled by the flower,
But not her hand; for Nature this prefers—
All other whites but shadowings to hers.
Her hair was rolled in many a curious fret,
Much like a rich and artful coronet,
Upon whose arches twenty Cupids lay,
And were or tied or loath to fly away.
Upon her bright eyes Phoebus his inclined,
And by their radiance was the god struck blind,
That clean awry th' ecliptic then he stripped
And from the milky way his horses whipped;
So that the eastern world to fear begun
Some stranger drove the chariot of the sun,
And never but that once did heaven's bright eye
Bestow one look on the Cimmerii.
A green silk frock her comely shoulders clad,
And took delight that such a seat it had;
Which, at her middle gathered up in pleats,
A love-knot girdle willing bondage threats.
Not Venus' ceston held a braver piece,
Nor that which girt the fairest flower of Greece.
Down from her waist her mantle loose did fall,
Which Zephyr, as afraid, still played withal;
And then, tucked up somewhat below the knee,
Showed searching eyes where Cupid's columns be;
The inside lined with rich carnation silk,
And, in the midst of both, lawn white as milk,
Which white beneath the red did seem to shroud,
As Cynthia's beauty through a blushing cloud:
About the edges, curious to behold,
A deep fringe hung of rich and twisted gold;
So on the green marge of a crystal brook
A thousand yellow flowers at fishes look;
And such the beams are of the glorious sun,
That through a tuft of grass dispersèd run.
Upon her leg a pair of buskins white,
Studded with orient pearl and chrysolite,
And, like her mantle, stitched with gold and green,
(Fairer yet never wore the forest's queen),
Knit close with ribbons of a party hue,
A knot of crimson and a tuft of blue;
Nor can the peacock in his spotted train
So many pleasing colours show again,
Nor could there be a mixture with more grace,
Except the heav'nly roses in her face.
A silver quiver at her back she wore,
With darts and arrows for the stag and boar;
But in her eyes she had such darts again
Could conquer gods, and wound the hearts of men.
Her left hand held a knotty Brazil bow,
Whose strength with tears she made the red deer know. 80
So clad, so armed, so dressed to win her will,
Diana never trod on Latmus' hill.
Walla, the fairest nymph that haunts the woods;
Walla, beloved of shepherds, fawns, and floods;
Walla, for whom the frolic satyrs pine;
Walla, with whose fine foot the flow'rets twine;
Walla, of whom sweet birds their ditties move;
Walla, the earth's delight, and Tavy's love.
A FAIRY BANQUET
And with that he led,
With such a pace as lovers use to tread
Near sleeping parents, by the hand the swain
Unto a pretty seat, near which these twain
By a round little hole had soon descried
A trim feat room, about a fathom wide,
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