To thee the Reede is as the Oake:

The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must
All follow this and come to dust.

Feare no more the Lightning flash,
Nor th' all-dreaded Thunder stone;
Feare not Slander, Censure rash.
Thou hast finish'd Ioy and mone.
All Louers young, all Louers must,
Consigne to thee and come to dust.

No Exorcisor harme thee,
Nor no witch-craft charme thee.
Ghost vnlaid forbeare thee.
Nothing ill come neere thee.
Quiet consumation haue,
And renowned be thy graue.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL, FROM LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST

WHEN Icicles hang by the wall,

And Dicke the Shepheard blowes his naile;
And Tom beares Logges into the hall,
And Milke comes frozen home in paile:
When blood is nipt, and waies be fowle,
Then nightly sings the staring Owle
Tu-whit to-who.

A merrie note,

While greasie Ione doth keele the pot.

When all aloud the winde doth blow,
And coffing drownes the Parsons saw:

And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marrians nose lookes red and raw:
When roasted Crabs hisse in the bowle,
Then nightly sings the staring Owle,
Tu-whit to-who.

A merrie note,

While greasie Ione doth keele the pot.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

O MISTRESS MINE WHERE ARE YOU
ROAMING? FROM TWELFTH NIGHT

O MISTRESS mine where are you roaming?
O stay and heare, your true loues coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further prettie sweeting.
Journeys end in louers meeting,
Eury wise mans sonne doth know.

What is loue, tis not heereafter,
Present mirth, hath present laughter:
What's to come, is still vnsure.

In delay there lies no plentie:

Then come kisse me sweet and twentie:
Youths a stuffe will not endure.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

FOLLOW YOUR SAINT

FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet,
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feete,
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrowe, pitie moue,

And tell the rauisher of my soule I perish for her loue:

But if she scorns my neuer-ceasing paine,

Then burst with sighing in her sight and nere return againe.

All that I soong still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end,

Yet she my loue and Musicke both doeth flie,
The Musicke that her Eccho is, and beauties sim-
pathie.

Then let my Noates pursue her scorneful flight, It shall suffice, that they were breath'd and dyed for her delight.

THOMAS CAMPION.

ON HIS MISTRIS, THE QUEEN OF
BOHEMIA

You meaner Beauties of the Night,
That poorly satisfie our Eies

More by your number, then your light,
You Common-people of the Skies;

What are you when the Sun shall rise?

You Curious Chanters of the Wood,
That warble forth Dame Natures layes,
Thinking your Voyces understood

By your weake accents; whats your praise
When Philomell her voyce shall raise?

You Violets, that first apeare,
By your pure purpel mantels knowne,
Like the proud Virgins of the yeare,
As if the Spring were all your own;

What are you when the Rose is blowne?

So, when my Mistris shal be seene
In form and Beauty of her mind,
By Vertue first, then choyce a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not design'd
Th' Eclypse and Glory of her kind.
SIR HENRY WOTTON.

THE ANNIVERSARIE

ALL Kings, and all their favorites,
All glory of honors, beauties, wits,

The Sun it selfe, which makes times, as they passe,
Is elder by a yeare, now, then it was
When thou and I first one another saw:
All other things, to their destruction draw,
Only our love hath no decay;

This, no to morrow hath, nor yesterday,
Running it never runs from us away,

But truly keepes his first, last, everlasting day.

Two graves must hide thine and my coarse,
If one might, death were no divorce.

Alas, as well as other Princes, wee,

(Who Prince enough in one another bee),

Must leave at last in death, these eyes, and eares, Oft fed with true oathes, and with sweet salt teares;

But soules where nothing dwells but love

(All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove This, or a love increased there above,

When bodies to their graves, soules from their graves remove.

And then we shall be throughly blest,
And wee no more, then all the rest;

Here upon earth, we'are Kings, and none but wee
Can be such Kings, nor of such subjects bee.
Who is so safe as wee? where none can doe
Treason to us, except one of us two.

True and false feares let us refraine,

Let us love nobly, and live, and adde againe
Yeares and yeares unto yeares, till we attaine
To write threescore: this is the second of our raigne.

JOHN DONNE.

A COMPARISON OF THE LIFE OF MAN

MANS life is well compared to a feast,
Furnisht with choice of all Varietie:
To it comes Tyme; and as a bidden guest
Hee sets him downe, in Pompe and Maiestie;
The three-folde Age of Man, the Waiters bee.
Then with an earthen voyder (made of clay)
Comes Death, & takes the table clean away.

RICHARD BARNEFIELD.

SLOW, SLOW, FRESH FOUNT, FROM
CYNTHIA'S REUELLS

SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keepe time with my salt teares;
Yet slower, yet, O faintly gentle springs:
List to the heavy part the musique beares,

Woe weepes out her division, when shee sings.
Droupe hearbs, and flowres;

Fall griefe in showres;

Our beauties are not ours: