THE MEANES TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE

MARTIALL, the thinges that do attayn
The happy life, be these, I finde.
The richesse left, not got with payn:
The frutefull ground: the quiet mynde:
The egall frend, no grudge, no strife:
No charge of rule, nor gouernance:
Without disease the healthfull lyfe;
The household of continuance:
The meane diet, no delicate fare:
True wisdom ioyned with simplenesse:
The night discharged of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppresse:
The faithful wife, without debate:
Such slepes as may begyle the night:
Contented with thine owne estate,
Ne wish for death, ne feare his might.
HENRY HOWARD, Earl of Surrey.

HENCE, HAIRT

HENCE, hairt, with hir that most depairte,
And hald thé with thy souerane;

For I had lever want ane harte

Nor haif the hairt that dois me pane.
Thairfoir go, with thy lufe remane,
And lat me leif thus vnmolest;

And se that thou cum nocht agane,
Bot byd with hir thow luvis best.

Sen scho that I haif scheruit lang
Is to depairt so suddanly,

Address the now, for thow sall gang
And beir thy lady cumpany.
Fra scho be gon, hairtles am I;
For quhy? thow art with hir possest;
Thairfoir, my hairt, go hence in hy,
And byd with hir thow luvis best.

Thocht this belappit body heir

Be bound to scheruitude and thrall,
My fathfull hairt is fre inteir,
And mynd to serf my lady at all.
Wald God that I were perigall,
Vnder that redolent ross to rest;
Yit at the leist, my hairt, thow sall
Abyd with hir thow luvis best.

Sen in your garth the lilly quhyte
May nocht remane amang the laif,
Adew the flour of haill delyte,

Adew the succour that ma me saif!
Adew the fragrant balmé suaif,
And lamp of ladeis lustiest!

My faythfull hairt scho sall it haif, To byd with hir it luvis best.

Deploir, ye ladeis cleir of hew,

Hir abscence, sen scho most depairte; And specialy ye luvaris trew

That woundit bene with luvis darte. For sum of yow sall want ane parte Als weill as I; thairfoir at last

Do go with myn, with mynd inwart, And byd with hir thow luvis best.

ALEXANDER SCOTT.

SONNET XXXVI. FROM AMORETTI

TELL me when shall these wearie woes haue end,
or shall their ruthlesse torment neuer cease:
but al my dayes in pining languor spend,
without hope of aswagement or release.
Is there no meanes for me to purchase peace,
or make agreement with her thrilling eyes:
but that their cruelty doth still increace,
and dayly more augment my miseryes.
But when ye haue shewed all extremityes,

then thinke how little glory ye haue gayned: by slaying him, whose lyfe though ye despyse, mote haue your life in honour long maintayned. But by his death which some perhaps will mone, ye shall condemned be of many a one.

EDMUND SPENSER.

SONNET I. FROM ASTROPHEL AND

STELLA

LOVING in trueth, and fayne my love in verse to show, That the deere Shee, might take some pleasure of my paine:

Pleasure might cause her reade, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pittie winne, and pittie grace obtaine.

I sought fit wordes, to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wittes to entertaine, Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flowe, Some fresh and fruitfull showres upon my Sunneburnt braine.

But wordes came halting out, wanting inventions

stay,

Invention Natures childe, fledde Stepdames studies blowes:

And others feete, still seem'de but straungers in my

way,

Thus great with Child to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,

Byting my tongue and penne, beating my selfe for

spite:

Foole saide My muse to mee, looke in thy heart

and write.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

SONNET XXXI. FROM ASTROPHEL
AND STELLA

WITH how sad steps ô Moone thou clim'st the skyes,
How silently, and with how meane a face,
What may it be, that even in heavenly place,
That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes?
Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feelst a Lovers case,
I reade it in thy lookes thy languisht grace.
To mee that feele the like, my state discries.
Then even of fellowship ô Moone tell me,

Is constant love deemde there but want of wit?
Are beauties there, as proude as heere there be?
Doe they above, love to be lov'd, and yet

Those Lovers scorne, whom that love doth
possesse?

Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

RING OUT YOUR BELLES

RING out your belles, let mourning shewes be spread,

For Love is dead:

All Love is dead, infected

With plague of deepe disdaine:
Worth as nought worth rejected,
And Faith faire scorne doth gaine.
From so ungratefull fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.

Weepe neighbours, weepe, do you not heare it said,
That Love is dead:

His death-bed peacocks follie,
His winding sheete is shame,
His will false-seeming holie,
His sole exectour blame.

From so ungratefull fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.

Let Dirge be sung, and Trentals rightly read,

For Love is dead:

Sir wrong his tombe ordaineth:
My mistresse Marble-heart,
Which Epitaph containeth,
Her eyes were once his dart.

From so ungratefull fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.