From LODGE and GREENE'S A
Looking Glass for London and
England, 1594.

DO ME RIGHT AND DO ME REASON.

EAUTY, alas! where wast thou born,

BEA

Thus to hold thyself in scorn?

Whenas Beauty kissed to woo thee,

Thou by Beauty dost undo me :
Heigh-ho! despise me not.

I and thou in sooth are one,

Fairer thou, I fairer none :

Wanton thou, and wilt thou, wanton,
Yield a cruel heart to plant on?
Do me right, and do me reason;
Cruelty is cursed treason:

Heigh-ho! I love, heigh-ho! I love,

Heigh-ho! and yet he eyes me not.

SPR

From THOMAS NASHE'S Summer's Last Will and Testament, 1600.

SPRING, THE SWEET SPRING.

PRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant
king;

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.

Spring, the sweet spring!

A-MAYING, A-PLAYING.

TRI

RIP and go! heave and ho!
Up and down, to and fro,
From the town to the grove,
Two and two, let us rove
A-maying, a-playing:
Love hath no gainsaying,

So merrily trip and go !

FADING SUMMER.

`AIR summer droops, droop men and beasts there

FAIR

fore,

So fair a summer look for never more :
All good things vanish less than in a day,
Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.

Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.
What, shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst,
Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed?
O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source,
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course.

Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

A

WINTER, PLAGUE, AND PESTILENCE.

UTUMN hath all the summer's fruitful treasure ; Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure! Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace : Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face? Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, And here we lie, God knows, with little ease.

From winter, plague and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us!

London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn!
Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born!
The want of term is town and city's harm;
Close chambers we do want to keep us warm.
Long banished must we live from our friends:
This low-built house will bring us to our ends.
From winter, plague and pestilence, good Lord,
deliver us!

DEATH'S SUMMONS.

ADIEU; farewell earth's bliss,

This world uncertain is :

Fond are life's lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly :

I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade ;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower,

Which wrinkles will devour :

Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair ;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye;

I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!