Or the stream

That no beam
Of sharpest eye discerns to fleet.

Therefore mortals all, deluded

By thy grave and wrinkled face, In their judgments have concluded That thy slow and snail-like pace

Still doth bend

To no end,
But to an eternal race,

Budding youth's vain blooming wit

Thinks the spring shall ever last ; And the gaudy flowers that sit On Flora's brow, shall never taste

Winter's scorn,

Nor, forlorn, Bend their heads with chilling blast.

Riper age expects to have
Harvests of his


toil : Times to give, and to receive Seeds and fruits from fertile soil :

But at length

Doth his strength,
Youth, and beauty, all recoil.


Cold December hope retains,

That the spring, each thing reviving, Shall throughout his aged veins Pour fresh youth, past joys repriving:

But thy scythe

Ends his strife,
And to Lethe sends him driving.


[From Alison's Hour's Recreation in Musick,"



In hope a king doth go to war,

In hope, a lover lives full long;
In hope, a merchant sails full far,

In hope, just men do suffer wrong:
In hope, the ploughman sows his seed:
Thus hope helps thousands at their need:
Then faint not, heart, among the rest,
Whatever chance, hope thou the best.

Though wit bids will to blow retreat,

Will cannot work as wit could wish.
When that the roach doth taste the bait,

Too late to warn the hungry fish.
When cities burn on fiery flame,
Great rivers scarce may quench the same :
If will and fancy be agreed,
Too late for wit to bid take heed.

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[From Wilbye's Second set of Madrigales," 1609.]

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart;
For those may fail, or turn to ill,

So thou and I shall sever ;
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,

And love me still, but know not why,
So hast thou the same reason still

To doat upon me ever.

[From the same.)

Draw on, sweet night, best friend unto those cares

That do arise from painful melancholy; My life so ill through want of comfort fares,

That unto thee I consecrate it wholly,

Sweet night, draw on! my griefs, when they be told To shades and darkness, find some ease from

paining; And while thou all in silence dost enfold,

I then shall have best time for my complaining. [From the same.)

So light is love, in matchless beauty shining,

When she revisits Cyprus' hallow'd bowers, Two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining,

Can draw her chariot ʼmidst the Paphian flowers, Lightness to love how ill it fitteth, So heavy on my heart she sitteth.

[From the same.]

HAPPY, oh happy he, who not affecting

The endless toils attending worldly cares, With mind repos'd, all discontents rejecting,

In silent peace his way to heaven prepares ! Deeming his life a scene, the world a stage Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.

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