By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read,

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

TO DAFFADILS.

Fair Daffadils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon,
Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day
Has run

But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die

As your hours do, and dry
Away,

Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

TO MEADOWS.

Ye have been fresh and green,

Ye have been fill'd with flowers;

And ye the walks have been

Where maids have spent their hours.

You have beheld how they

With wicker arks did come,

To kiss and bear away

The richer cowslips home.

You've heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round;
Each virgin, like a spring,
With honeysuckles crown'd.

But now, we see none here,
Whose silvery feet did tread,
And with dishevell'd hair

Adorn'd this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock, and needy grown,
You're left here to lament
Your poor estates alone.

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD.

Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof

Is weather proof;

Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry;

Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate;
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door

Is worn by th' poor,

Who thither come, and freely get
Good words, or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall
And kitchen's small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead;

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,

The pulse is thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by thee;

The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
And my content

Makes those, and my belovèd beet,
To be more sweet.

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth,

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,

And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,

Twice ten for one;

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay

Her egg each day;

Besides, my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year;

The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine:

All these, and better, thou dost send

Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,

A thankful heart;

Which, fired with incense, I resign,

As wholly thine;

-But the acceptance, that must be,

My Christ, by Thee.

THE MAD MAID'S SONG.

Good morrow to the day so fair;
Good morning, sir, to you;

Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good morning to this primrose too ;
Good morrow to each maid;

That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,

Alack and well-a-day!

For pity, sir, find out that bee,
Which bore my Love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;
I'll seek him in your eyes;

Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know, ere this, The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him;
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed,
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home;-but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,

Till, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes!

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;-

Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

ART ABOVE NATURE.

When I behold a forest spread
With silken trees upon thy head;
And when I see that other dress
Of flowers set in comeliness;
When I behold another grace
In the ascent of curious lace,
Which, like a pinnacle, doth shew
The top, and the top-gallant too;
Then, when I see thy tresses bound
Into an oval, square, or round,
And knit in knots far more than I
Can tell by tongue, or True-love tie;
Next, when those lawny films I see
Play with a wild civility;