All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear,
Than they were painted on a wall,
No more they move or steir.
Calm is the deep and purple sea,
Yea, smoother than the sand ;
The waves, that weltering wont to be,
Are stable like the land.
So silent is the cessile air,
That every cry and call,
The hills and dales and forest fair
Again repeats them all.
The flourishes and fragrant flowers,
Through Phæbus' fostering heat,
Refreshed with dew and silver showers,
Cast up an odour sweet.
The clogged busy humming bees,
That never think to drone,
On flowers and flourishes of trees,
Collect their liquor brown.
The sun, most like a speedy post,
With ardent course ascends;
The beauty of the heavenly host
Up to our zenith tends;
Not guided by a Phaëthon,
Not trained in a chair,
But by the high and holy One,
Who does all where empire.
The burning beams down from his face
So fervently can beat,
That man and beast now seek a place
To save them from the heat.
The herds beneath some leafy tree,
Amidst the flowers they lie ;
The stable ships upon the sea
Tend up their sails to dry.
With gilded eyes and open wings,
The cock his courage shows ;
With claps of joy his breast he dings,
And twenty times he crows.
The dove with whistling wings so blue,
The winds can fast collect,
Her purple pens turn many a hue
Against the sun direct.
Now noon is went ; gone is midday,
The heat does slake at last,
The sun descends down west away,
For three o'clock is past.
The rayons of the sun we see
Diminish in their strength,
The shade of every tower and tree
Extended is in length.
Great is the calm, for everywhere
The wind is setting down,
The reek throws right up in the air
From every tower and town.
The gloming comes, the day is spent,
The sun goes out of sight,
And painted is the occident
With purple sanguine bright.
The scarlet nor the golden thread,
Who would their beauty try,
Are nothing like the colour red
And beauty of the sky.
Our west horizon circular,
From time the sun be set,
Is all with rubies, as it were,
Or roses red o'erfret.
What pleasure were to walk and see,
Endlong a river clear,
The perfect form of every tree
Within the deep appear.
Oh then it were a seemly thing,
While all is still and calm,
The praise of God to play and sing
With cornet and with shalm!
All labourers draw home at even,
And can to other say,
Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
Which sent this summer day.
Alexander Hume.
A VOW TO LOVE FAITHFULLY, HOWSOEVER
HE BE REWARDED.
Set me whereas the sun doth parch the green,
Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice ;
In temperate heat where he is felt and seen;
In presence prest of people, mad or wise ;
Set me in high, or yet in low degree ;
In longest night, or in the shortest day;
In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be;
In lusty youth, or when my hairs are gray :
Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell,
In hill or dale, or in the foaming flood;
Thrall, or at large, alive whereso I dwell,
Sick or in health, in evil fame or good,
Hers will I be ; and only with this thought
Content 'myself, although my chance be nought.
Earl of Surrey.
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant ;
My great travail so gladly spent
Forget not yet !
Forget not yet when first began
ife ye know, since whan The suit, the service none tell can;
Forget not yet !
Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways ;
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet !
Forget not! oh! forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is
The mind that never meant amiss-
Forget not yet !
Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved
Forget not this !
Sir Thomas Wyat.
If women could be fair, and yet not fond,
Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,
I would not marvel that they make men bond
By service long to purchase their good will ;
But when I see how frail those creatures are,
I muse that men forget themselves so far.
To mark the choice they make, and how they change,
How oft from Phæbus they do flee to Pan; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,
These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list ?
Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when nothing else can please,
And train them to our lure with subtle oath,
Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;
And then we say when we their fancy try,
To play with fools, oh what a fool was I !
Earl of Oxford.
THE EXCELLENCY OF HIS LOVE.
Give place, ye lovers, here before
That spent your boasts and brags in vain :
My lady's beauty passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well say’n,
Than doth the sun the candle light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.
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