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Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ;
The fishes flete with new-repaired scale ;
The adder all her slough away she slings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ;
The busy bee her honey now she mings;
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale :
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.

“I CANNOT EAT BUT LITTLE MEAT.”

BY BISHOP STILL.

[A Convivial Song, by Bishop Still ; written about the year 1565. Little is known of the author, except that he was the writer of a play called “Gammer Gunter's Needle."]

I CANNOT eat but little meat,

My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink

With him that wears a hood.

Though I go bare, take ye no care,

I nothing am a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within

Of jolly good ale and old.

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But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,

Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,

And a crab laid in the fire ;
And little bread shall do me stead ;

Much bread I nought desire.
No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow,

Can hurt me if I wold,
I am so wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd,
Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, go bare ; &c.

And Tip, my wife, that as her life

Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till ye may see

The tears run down her cheek :
Then doth she troul to me the bowl,

Even as a maltworm should,
And saith, “Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old."

Back and side go bare, go bare ; &c.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,

Even as good fellows should do ; They shall not miss to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to. And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls,

Or have them lustily troul'd, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old.

Back and side go bare, go bare ; &c.

“WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON!”

BY SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

[SIR PHILIP SIDNEY was born at Penshurst, in Kent, in 1554. He was the son of Sir Henry Sidney, who became Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in the reign of Elizabeth. After he had been educated at Oxford and Cambridge, he went on the Continent; and, while at Paris, was treated with the greatest distinction by the French king. But, horrified at the massacre of St. Bartholomew, as soon as the danger was over, he left that capital, where he had resided with the English Ambassador, and resumed his travels, in the course of which he distinguished himself, on various occasions, by his martial prowess. When he returned to England, he received several important appointments from the Queen. He was named as a candidate for the Crown of Poland, but the Queen refused her consent to his being elected, “lest she should lose the jewel of her times." He was sent by her to the Netherlands, to the relief of the Protestants, and there gained the battle of Lutphen in 1586; but the advantage was dearly purchased by the death of the gallant victor. His life was one scene of romance, from its commencement to its close. As he was borne from the field fainting with loss of blood, he saw a dying soldier look wistfully at a bottle of water he was putting to his lips, and resigned it to him instantly, saying, “This man's necessity is greater than mine.” He was buried in St. Paul's Cathedral.

Sidney's poems are, to us, cold and affected, except when he follows his own natural sentiments.]

With how sad steps, O Moon ! thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face !
What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace
To me that feel the like thy state descries.

Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

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Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

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