If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her rosiall colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace,

More readier too than doth the rose,

Within her lively face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,

Ne at no wanton play,

Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding as a stray.

The modest mirth that she doth use
Is mix'd with shamefacedness;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,

And hateth idleness.

O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair
And deck in her such honesty
Whom Nature made so fair.

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

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.

This gift alone I shall her give:
When Death doth what he can,
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.

SIR THOMAS WYATT

YEA OR NAY

MADAM! Withouten many words,

Once I am sure you will, or no :

And if you will, then leave your boordes And use your wit and show it so !

For with a beck you shall me call;
And if of One that burns alway
Ye have pitie or ruth at all,

Answer him fair with Yea or Nay!

If it be Yea, I shall be fain;

If it be Nay, friends as before,

You shall another man obtain,

And I, mine own, be yours no more.

DISDAIN ME NOT!

The Lover prayeth not to be disdained, refused, mistrusted, nor forsaken.

DISDAIN me not without desert!

Nor leave me not so suddenly!

Since well ye wot that in my hert
I mean ye not but honestly.

Refuse me not without cause why!
Forethink me not, to be unjust !
Since that by lot of fantasy

This careful knot needs knit I must.

Mistrust me not! though some there be
That fain would spot my steadfastness.
Believe them not! since that ye see
The proof is not as they express.

Forsake me not till I deserve!

Nor hate me not till I offend !
Destroy me not till that I swerve,
But since ye know what I intend !

Disdain me not that am your own!
Refuse me not that am so true!
Mistrust me not till all be known!

Forsake me not, ne for no new!

THOMAS, LORD VAUX

DEATH IN LIFE

OW can the tree but waste and wither away

That hath not sometime comfort of the sun? And can the flower but fade and soon decay That always is with dark clouds overrun? Is this a life? Nay! death I may it call, That feels each pain and knows no joy at all.

What foodless beast can live long in good plight?
Or is it life where senses there be none?
Or what availeth eyes without their sight?
Or else a tongue to him that is alone?
Is this a life? Nay! death I may it call,
That feels each pain and knows no joy at all.

Whereto serve ears if that there be no sound?

Or such a head where no device doth grow But all of plaints, since sorrow is the ground Whereby the heart doth pine in deadly woe? Is this a life? Nay! death I may it call, That feels each pain and knows no joy at all.

THOMAS TUSSER

OME pleasures take

SOME

And can not give,
But only make

Poor thanks their gift;
Some, meaning well,

In debt do live,
And can not tell

Where else to shift.

Some knock, and fain
Would ope the door,
To learn the vain

Good turn to praise ;
Some shew poor face,
And be but poor,

Yet have a grace

Good fame to raise.

Some owe and give

Yet still in debt,

And so must live,

For aught I know;

Some wish to pay,

And can not get,

But night and day

Must still more owe.

Even so must I, for service past,

Still wish you good while life doth last.