And some do love the common sort, Lest that a chip fall in thine eye. But, sirs, I use to tell no tales; Each fish that swims doth not bear scales. In every hedge I find not thorns ; Nor every beast doth carry horns. I say not so, That every woman causeth wo : That were too broad: Who lov'th not venom must shun the toad. Who useth still the truth to tell May blamed be, though he say well. But few scap'd drowning in Noah's flood. I must say so, lest I be shent. The Herdman's Happy Life.* [From "Sonets and Pastorales" included in "Psalmes, 66 Sonets, and Songs of Sadnes and Pietie, made into "musicke of five partes." By W. Byrd, 1588.] * WHAT pleasure have great princes And fortune's favours scorning' * All day their flocks each tendeth, For lawyers and their pleading, Is of itself a law: This title is from England's Helicon, in which the poem is said to be taken "out of M. Bird's Set Songs." Where conscience judgeth plainly, O happy who thus liveth, To keep him from the cold. [At an annual Triumph, held in honour of Queen Elizabeth, Nov. 17, 1590, in the Tilt-yard, Westminster, the following verses were " pronounced and sung by M. Hales, her Majesty's servant, a gentleman in that art excellent, and "for his voice both commendable and admirable." Segar's "Honor, Military and Civill,” 1602. fol. c. 54. p. 198.] My golden locks time hath to silver turn'd, (Oh time too swift, and swiftness never ceasing!) My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth hath spurn'd, But spurn'd in vain: youth waneth by increa sing. Beauty, and strength, and youth, flowers fading been, Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. My helmet now shall make an hive for bees, A man at arms must now sit on his knees, And feed on prayers, that are old age's alms. And so from court to cottage I depart; My saint is sure of mine unspotted heart. And when I sadly sit in homely cell, I'll teach my swains this carol for a song: "Blest be the hearts that think my sovereign well, "Curs'd be the souls that think to do her "wrong." Goddess! vouchsafe this aged man his right, To be your beadsman now, that was your knight. Wodenfride's Song in Praise of Amargana. THE sun, the season, in each thing The paths where Amargana treads The groves put on their rich array, And sweet perfum'd with eglantine, The silent river stays his course, The woods at her fair sight rejoices, Great Pan, our god, for her dear sake, And every swain his chance doth prove, To win fair Amargana's love, In sporting strifes, quite void of spleen, All happiness let heaven her lend, W. H[UNNIS?] |