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An house of ancient fame :
There when they came whereas those bricky towers
The which on Thames' broad agéd back do ride,
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,
Till they decay'd through pride ;
Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace
Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
Whose want too well now feels my friendless case ;
But ah! here fits not well
Old woes, but joys to tell
Against the bridal day, which is not long :

Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,
Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did

And Hercules' two pillars standing near
Did make to quake and fear :
Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry !
That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame
Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
And endless happiness of thine own name
That promiseth the same ;
That through thy prowess and victorious arms
Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
And great Élisa's glorious name may ring
Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms,
Which some brave Muse may sing
To ages following: UN
Upon the bridal day, which is not long :

Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song.
From those high towers this noble lord issuing
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
In th' ocean billows he hath bathéd fair,
Descended to the river's open viewing
With a great train ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to be seen
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,


Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,
That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight
Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright ;
They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
Which, at th' appointed tide,
Each one did make his bride
Against their bridal.day, which is not long :
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song.

E. Spenser



Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?

O sweet content !
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd ?

O punishment !
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers ?
O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content !

Work apace, apace, apace, apace ;

Honest Tabour bears a lovely face ;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny !
Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?

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

O punishment !
Then he that patiently wart's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king !
O sweet content ! O sweet, Osweet content !

Work apace, apace, apacę, apace ;

Honest labour bears a lovely face ;
Chen hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

T. Dekkes



Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me ;

For while thuu view'st me with thy fading light Part of my life doth

still depart with thee,
And I still onward haste to my last night :
Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly-
So every day we live a day we die.
But Oye nights, ordain’d for barren rest,

How are my days deprived of life in you
When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,

By feignéd death life sweetly to renew !
Part of my life, in that, you life deny :
So every day we live, a day we die.

T. Campion


This Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air
By sporting children's breath,
Who chase it everywhere
And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
And though it sometimes seem of its own might
Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
And firm to hover in that empty height,
That only is because it is so light.

- But in that pomp it doth not long appear ;
For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,
Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.

W. Druinmona



Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[Foild by] those rebel powers that thee array:
Why doth thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body's end ?
Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ;
Within be fed, without be rich no more :
So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there's no more dying then.

W. Shakespeare


The mar. of life upright,

Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,

Or thought of vanity;
The man whose silent days

In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude

Nor sorrow discontent :

That man needs neither towers

Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly

From thunder's violence :

He only can behold

With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep

And terrors of the skies.
Thus scorning all the cares

That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,

His wisdom nly things;
Good thoughts his only friends,

His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn
And quiet pilgrimage.

T. Campion



Of this fair volume which we World do name
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare :
Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
His providence extending everywhere,
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, no period of the same.
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.

W. Drummond

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