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The night discharged of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress.
The faithful wife, without debate;

Such sleeps as may beguile the night; Contented with thine own estate,

Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.

GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. GIVE place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain;

My lady's beauty passeth more

The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sun the candlelight,
Or brightest day the darkest night;

And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fair;
For what she saith ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealed were;
And virtues hath she many mo'
Than I with pen have skill to show.

I could rehearse, if that I would,

The whole effect of Nature's plaint, When she had lost the perfect mould,

The like to whom she could not paint. With wringing hands, how did she cry! And what she said, I know it aye.

I know she swore, with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart,
There was no loss by law of kind

That could have gone so near her heart;

And this was chiefly all her pain,
"She could not make the like again."

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise
To be the chiefest work she wrought,
In faith, methink, some better ways

On your behalf might well be sought,
Than to compare, as ye have done,
To match the candle with the sun.

HOW NO AGE IS CONTENT

WITH ITS OWN ESTATE. LAYD in my quiet bed in study as I were, I saw within my troubled head, a heap of thoughts appear,

And every thought did shew so lyvely in myne eyes,

That now I sight, and then I smilde, as cause of thoughts did ryse.

I saw the little boy, in thought how oft that he

Did wishe of God, to scape the rod, a tall young man to be,

The young man eake that feles his bones with paines opprest

How he would be a riche old man, to live and lye at rest;

The riche olde man that sees his end draw on so sore,

How he would be a boy againe to live so much the more.

Whereat full oft I smylde, to see how all those three

From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree. And musing thus, I think, the case is very strange,

That man from wealth, to live in wo, doth ever seke to change.

Thus thoughtfull as I lay, I sawe my withered skyn,

How it doth shew my dented chewes, the flesh was worn so thin, And eke my tootheless chaps, the gates of my right way,

That opes and shuttes, as I do speak, do thus unto me say:

The white and horish heres, the messengers of age,

That shew like lines of true belief, that this life doth assuage,

Biddes thee lay hand, and feele them hanging on thy chin.

The whiche doth write to ages past, the third now coming in;

Hang up therefore the bitte, of thy yong wanton tyme,

And thou that therein beaten art, the happiest life defyne.

Whereat I sighed, and sayde, farewell my wonted toye,

Trusse up thy packe, and trudge from me, to every little boy,

And tell them thus from me, their time most happy is,

If to theyr time they reason had, to know the truth of this.

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

1503-1542.

[THOMAS WYATT, the eldest son of Sir Henry Wyatt, a baronet of ancient family, was born at Allington Castle, in Kent, in 1503. In the Court of Henry VIII. he soon became a conspicuous figure, famous for his wit, his learning, his poetical talents, his linguistic attainments, his skill in athletic exercises, his fascinating manners and his handsome person. From a courtier he developed into a statesman and a diplomatist, and in the duties incident to statesmanship and diplomacy most of his life was passed. He died at Sherborne, while on his road to Falmouth, and was buried there October 11, 1542. His poems were first printed in Tottel's Miscellany in 1557.]

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And for because my want should more my woe increase,

And with my teares t' assy to charge myne eyes twayne,

In watch and sleep both day and night Like as my hart above the brink is

my will doth never cease. That thing to wishe whereof synce I did lose the sight,

Was never thing that mought in ought my wofull hart delight.

Th' uneasy life I lead doth teach me for

to mete,

The floods, the seas, the land, the hills, that doth them intermete,

Twene me and those shene lights that wonted for to clere,

My darked pangs of cloudy thoughts as bright as Phebus sphere;

It teacheth me also, what was my pleasant state,

The more to feele by such record how

that my welth doth bate.

If such record (alas) provoke the inflamed mynde,

Which sprung that day that I dyd leave the best of me behynde,

If love forgeat himselfe by length of absence let,

Who doth me guid (O wofull wretch)

unto this baited net: Where doth encrease my care, much better were for me,

As dumm as stone all things forgott, still absent for to be.

Alas the clear christall, the bright tran

splendant glasse,

Doth not bewray the colours hid which underneath it hase.

As doth the accumbred sprite the thoughtfull throwes discover,

Of teares delyte of fervent love that in our hartes we cover,

Out by these eyes, it sheweth that evermore delight;

In plaint and teares to seek redress, and eke both day and night. Those kindes of pleasures most wherein men soe rejoice,

To me they do redouble still of stormy sighes the voice.

For, I am one of them, whom plaint doth well content,

It fits me well my absent wealth me semes for to lament,

fraughted full of payne.

And for because thereto, that these fair eyes do treate,

Do me provoke, I will returne, my plaint thus to repeate;

For there is nothing els, so toucheth me within,

Where they rule all, and I alone, nought but the case or skin.

Wherefore I shall returne to them as well or spring,

From whom descends my mortall wo, above all other thing.

So shall myne eyes in paine accompany my heart,

That were the guides, that did it lead of love to feel the smart.

The crisped gold that doth surmount Appolloe's pride,

The lively streames of pleasant starrs that under it doth glyde,

Wherein the beames of love doe still increase theire heate,

Which yet so far touch me to near in cold

to make me sweat,

The wise and pleasant take, so rare or else alone,

That gave to me the curties gyft, that earst had never none.

Be far from me alas, and every other thing,

I might forbear with better will, then this that did me bring.

With pleasand woord and cheer, redress of lingred payne,

And wonted oft in kindled will, to vertue

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That wonted well to tune in temper just | As they have been of yore.

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THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH
LOVE.

I LOTHE that I dyd love,
In youth that I thought swete,
As time requires for my behove,
Methinks they are not mete.

My lustes they do me leave,
My fancies all are fled,
And tract of time begynnes to weave
Gray heares upon my hed.

For age with stealing steppes
Hath clawde me with his crouche,
And lusty lyfe away she leapes
As there had been none such.

My muse doth not delight

Me as she dyd before,

My hand and pen are not in plight,

For reason me denyes
This youthly ydle ryme,
And day by day to me cryes,
Leave of these toyes in tyme.

The wrinkles in my browe,
The furrows in my face,

Say lymping age will lodge hym now,
Where youth must geve him place.

The harbinger of death,

To me I see him ride,

The cough, the cold, the gasping breath
Doth byd me to provyde

A pickax and a spade
And eke a shrowding shete,
A house of clay for to be made,
For such a geaste most mete.

Methinkes I hear the clarke
That knoles the carefull knell,
And byddes me leave my woful warke,
Ere nature me compell.

My kepers knit the knot,
That youth did laugh to skorne,
Of me that cleane shall be forgot,
As I had not been borne.

Thus must I youth geve up,
Whose badge I long dyd weare,
To them I yelde the wanton cup,
That better may it beare.

Lo, here the bare hed skull,
By whose balde signe I know,
That stouping age away shall pull
Which youthful yeres did sowe.

For beauty with her band
These croked cares hath wrought,
And shipped me into the land,
From whence I fyrst was brought.
And ye that byde behinde,
Have ye none other trust
As ye of clay were cast by kynd,
So shall ye waste to dust.

THE LONGER LIFE THE MORE
OFFENCE.

THE longer life the more offence,
The more offence the greater paine,
The greater paine the lesse defence,
The lesse defence the lesser gaine;
The loss of gaine long yll doth trye,
Wherefore come death and let me dye

The shorter life, less count I finde,
The less account the sooner made,
The account soon made, the merier mind,
The merier mynd doth thought evade;
Short life in truth this thing doth trye,
Wherefore come death and let me dye.

Come gentle death, the ebbe of care,
The ebbe of care, the flood of life,
The flood of life, the joyful fare,
The joyful fare, the end of strife,
The end of strife, that thing wish I,
Wherefore come death and let me die.

BEN JONSON.

1573-1637.

[Born 1573; educated at Westminster School and (according to Fuller) at St. John's College, Cambridge. After a brief connection with the trade of his step-father, a master brick-layer, he served as a volunteer in the Low Countries, and settled in London as a playwright not later than 1597. His first important comedy, Every Man in his Humour, was acted 1598; his first tragedy, Sejanus, 1603. His masques chiefly belong to the reign of James I., more especially to its earlier part. He wrote nothing for the stage from 1616 to 1625. After this he produced a few more plays, without permanently securing the favor of the public. Of these plays the last but two was The New Inn, the complete failure of which on the stage provoked Jonson's longer Ode to Himself. He enjoyed, however, in his later years, besides a fluctuating court patronage, the general homage of the English world of letters as its veteran chief. He died in London, August 6, 1637. The First Folio edition of his Works, published in 1616, included the Book of Epigrams, and the lyrics and epistles gathered under the heading The Forest in the same Folio; the Second Folio, published posthumously in 1641, contained the larger and (as its name implies) supplementary collection, called Underwoods by its author.]

THE SWEET NEGLECT.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast:
Still to be poud'red, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a looke, give me a face,
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art,
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

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