A WINTER, PLAGUE, AND PESTILENCE. UTUMN hath all the summer's fruitful treasure ; Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure! Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace : Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face? Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, And here we lie, God knows, with little ease. From winter, plague and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us! London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn! Long banished must we live from our friends : DEATH'S SUMMONS. ADIEU; farewell earth's bliss, This world uncertain is : Fond are life's lustful joys, I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us! Rich men, trust not in wealth, Lord have mercy on us! Beauty is but a flower, Which wrinkles will devour: Brightness falls from the air; I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us! Strength stoops unto the grave: Lord have mercy on us! Wit with his wantonness, Hath no ears for to hear Lord have mercy on us! Haste therefore each degree I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us! WHO From The Two Gentlemen of SILVIA. is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; That Silvia is excelling ; From Love's Labour's Lost. THE RHYME OF WHITE AND RED. F she be made of white and red, IF Her faults will ne'er be known, For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, And fears by pale white shown: Then if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know, For still her cheeks possess the same, 1 An old form of "own." BIRON'S CANZONET. IF love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove ; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would com prehend; If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee com mend, All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder ; (Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire ;) Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music, and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, oh, pardon love this wrong, That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue! |