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Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store:
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss;

I grudge not at another's pain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain :

I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;

Their treasure is their only trust;
A cloaked craft their store of skill:

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1 His last actions were not equal to his first.

II

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart,

That sues for no compassion.

Silence in love bewrays more woe

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Than words, though ne'er so witty:

A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

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5

As it fell upon a day,

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ΙΟ

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In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a group of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Everything did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone;
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
"Fie, fie, fie!" now would she cry;
"Teru, teru!" 2 by-and-by.
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain.

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion 3 he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;

All thy fellow birds do sing,

Careless of thy sorrowing;

Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me.

- IGNOTO

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MELI. FAUST.

MELI.

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PHYL. Sure methinks my true love doth

excel

For sweetness, for sweetness,

Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight.

COR. And methinks my true love bears the

bell

dwell;

It is perhaps that sauncing bell1

That tolls all in to heaven or hell:
And this is Love, as I hear tell. 6
Yet what is Love, I prithee say?
It is a work on holiday,

It is December match'd with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array

Hear ten months after of the play:
And this is Love, as I hear say. 12
Yet what is Love, good shepherd,
sain 2?
FAUST. It is a sunshine mix'd with rain,
It is a tooth-ache, or like 3 pain,
It is a game, where none doth gain;
The lass saith no, and would full
fain:

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