XLV

TO SPRING AND DEATH

SWEET spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly traine,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers,
The zephyres curl the green locks of the plaine,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers.

Turn thou, sweet youth; but ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not againe,
The sad memorials only of my paine

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets to sours.

Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;

But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore.

Neglected Virtue ! seasons go and come,
While thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.

W. DRUMMOND.

XLVI

SURSUM COR

LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.

Draw in thy beames, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedomes be;
Which breakes the cloudes, and opens forth the light,
That doth both shine, and give us sight to see.

O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out of death,
And thinke how ill becometh him to slide

Who seeketh heav'n and comes of heavenly breath.

Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see :
Eternal Love, maintaine thy life in me.

SIR P. SIDNEY.

XLVII

CONTENT

ART thou poore, yet hast thou golden slumbers:
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy minde perplexed:
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fooles are vexed
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers:
O sweet content!

Worke apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour beares a lovely face;

Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney.

Canst drinke the waters of the crisped spring:

O sweet content!

Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine owne teares,

O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden beares, No burden beares, but is a king, a king,

O sweet content!

Work apace, apace, etc.

XLVIII

T. DEKKER (?)

THE HAPPY LIFE

MARTIAL, the things that do attain
The happy life, be these, I finde.
The richesse left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground, the quiet minde;

The equal friend, no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the healthful life;
The household of continuance ;

The meane diet, no delicate fare;

True wisdom join'd with simplenesse ;

The night discharged of all care,

Where wine the wit may not oppresse.

E

The faithful wife, without debate;

Such sleepes as may beguile the night; Contented with thine owne estate,

Ne wish for death, ne feare his might.

EARL OF SURREY.

XLIX

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill;

Whose Passions not his masters are;
Whose Soul is still prepar'd for Death,
Unti'd unto the world by care

Of publick Fame or private Breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor Vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor Rules of State, but Rules of good.

Who hath his life from Rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ;
Whose State can neither Flatterers feed,
Nor Ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a Religious Book or Friend.

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:—
Lord of himself, though not of Lands,
And, having nothing, yet hath all.

SIR H. WOTTON.

L

PARVUM SUFFICIT

HOMELY hearts doe harbour quiet,

Little feare, and mickle solace :

States suspect their bed and diet,

Feare and craft do haunt the palace.

Little would I, little want I,

Where the minde and store agreeth,

Smallest comfort is not scantie,

Least he longs that little seeth. Time hath beene that I have longed, Foolish I, to like of folly,

To converse where honour thronged,

To my pleasures linked wholly.