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A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,

He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,"Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong". Goddess, allow this aged man his right,

To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

THOMAS NASH.

(1567-1601?.)

These songs are from the comedy of Summer's Last Will and Testament, 1600 (acted 1592). Nash's works have been edited by Dr. Grosart in the Huth Library.

SPRING, THE SWEET SPRING.

SPRING, 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 hear we 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!

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!

Strength stoops unto the grave:
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate:
Earth still holds ope her gate.
Come, come, the bells do cry;
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness,
Tasteth death's bitterness.

Hell's executioner

Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny:
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage.
Mount we unto the sky;

I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

FADING SUMMER.

AIR summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore;

FAIR

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.

THOMAS LODGE.

(15587-1625.)

The "Song of Rosaline" is in the pastoral romance of Rosalind, 1590, the source of As You Like It. The second selection is one of the "Sundrie Sweet Sonnets " contained in Scilla's Metamorphosis, 1589, written 1577(?). The last selection is found in the Life of Robert, Second Duke of Normandy, 1591. Lodge's works are reprinted in the Hunterian Club publications; Rosalind in Hazlitt's Shakespeare's Library. Many of his lyrics are included among Mr. Bullen's Lyrics from Elizabethan Romances.

ROSADER'S DESCRIPTION OF ROSALYND.

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere,
Where all imperial glory shines,

Of self-same colour is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynd!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver-crimson shroud

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynd!

Her lips are like two budded roses,

Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,

Within whose bounds she balm encloses

Apt to entice a deity.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour,
From her divine and sacred eyes;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynd!

Her paps are centres of delight,

Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame, Where nature moulds the dew of light, To feed perfection with the same. Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft to touch, and sweet in view;
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynd!

Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,
And at her eyes his brand doth light.
Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalynd;

Since for her fair there is fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine.

Heigh ho! fair Rosalynd!

Heigh ho! my heart, would God that she were mine!

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