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The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me, and be my

love.
CHRISTOPHER MARLowe.

O SWEET CONTENT

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?

O sweet content !
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ?

O punishment !
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexéd
To add to golden numbers golden numbers ?

O sweet content !

5

Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring ?

O sweet content !
Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears ? 10

O punishment!
Then he that patiently want's burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king !

O sweet content !

15

Work apace, apace, apace, apace ;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney!

THOMAS DEKKER.

STILL TO BE NEAT

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

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Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Ben Jonson.

IO

TO CELIA

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I 'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

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I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

BEN JONSON.

15

GOOD MORROW

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day!
With night we banish sorrow.
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft
To give my love good morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I 'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good morrow!
To give my love good morrow!
Notes from them all I 'll borrow.

5

10

15

Wake, from thy nest, robin redbreast !
Sing birds in every furrow,
And from each bill, let music shrill
Give

my

fair love good morrow !
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair love good morrow!
To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow!

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

20

LINES ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER

MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here !
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones;
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust

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10

They preach: 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in,
Since the first man died for sin !
Here the bones of birth have cried :
• I hough gods they were, as men they died.'
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings.
Here's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

15

ROSES, THEIR SHARP SPINES BEING GONE

Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone

But in their hue;
Maiden pinks of odour faint;
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint;

And sweet thyme true ;

5

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15

All dear Nature's children sweet
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,

Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,

Be absent hence!

20

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar,

Nor chattering pie,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!

JOHN FLETCHER (?).

TO THE CAMBRO-BRITONS AND THEIR HARP,

HIS BALLAD OF AGINCOURT

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