WE THOMAS HEYWOOD. SHEPHERD's SONG. E that have known no greater state Than this we live in, praise our fate: For courtly silks in cares are spent, When country's russet breeds content. The power of sceptres we admire, But sheep-hooks for our use desire. Simple and low is our condition, For here with us is no ambition; We with the sun our flocks unfold, Whose rising makes their fleeces gold. "Our music from the birds we borrow, They bidding us, we them, good-morrow." Our habits are but coarse and plain, Yet they defend from wind and rain; As warm too, in an equal eye, As those be stain'd in scarlet dye. The shepherd, with his home-spun lass, As many merry hours doth pass As courtiers with their costly girls, Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls; And, though but plain, to purpose woo, Nay often with less danger too. Those that delight in dainties store, One stomach feed at once, no more; And, when with homely fare we feast, With us it doth as well digest; And many times we better speed, For our wild fruits no surfeits breed. If we sometimes the willow wear, By subtle swains that dare forswear, We wonder whence it comes, and fear They've been at court and learnt it there. DAVISON. CUPID'S PASTIME. From Percy's Collection. IT chanc'd of late a shepherd swain, That went to seek his straying sheep, Her golden hair o'erspread her face, Her breast lay bare to every blast. There come, he steals her shafts away, But ere she wakes hies thence apace. Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, But up again forthwith he starts, And to the nymph he ran amain. Amaz'd to see so strange a sight, She shot, and shot, but all in vain; Her angry eyes were great with tears, She blames her hand, she blames her skill, The bluntness of her shafts she fears, And try them on herself she will. Take heed, sweet nymph, try not thy shaft, Yet try she will, and pierce some bare, That breast she pierc'd, and through the breast At feeling of this new-come guest, Lord! how the gentle nymph did start. The God of Love sat on a tree, SOME there are as fair to see to, But by art and not by nature; WILLIAM ALEXANDER. EXTRACT From a Chorus in Julius Caesar. THIS life of ours is like a rose, So, whilst the courage hottest boils, Of which, though none it chance to kill, SONG From the Aurora. Would to God a way were found, That by some secret sympathy unknown, My fair my fancy's depth might sound, And know my state as clearly as her own! I were the happiest wight; For if iny state they knew, And mend me if they might. The deepest rivers make least din, The silent soul doth most abound in care, Then might my breast be read within, A thousand volumes would be written there. Might silence shew my mind, Would soon discern my state. Oft those that do deserve disdain, The gallant living free, His fancies doth extend; Then since in vain I plaints impart And not recount the crosses At least, to senseless things, Mounts, vales, woods, floods, and springs, Ah! unaffected lines, True models of my heart; The world may see that in you shines The power of passion, more than art. |