ADIEU; farewell earth's bliss,
This world uncertain is:
Fond are life's lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly:
I am fick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, truft not in wealth;
Gold cannot buy you health;
Phyfic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by:
I am fick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flower,
Which wrinkles will devour:
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair:
Duft hath closed Helen's eye:
I am fick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Strength floops unto the grave;
Worms feed on Hector brave.
Swords may not fight with fate:
Earth ftill holds ope her gate.
Come, come, the hells do cry;
I am fick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Wit with his wantonness
Tafteth death's bitterness.
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
I am fick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Hafte therefore each degree
To welcome destiny:
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage.
Mount we unto the sky;
I am fick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant King;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;
Cold doth not fting, the pretty birds do fing,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.
The palm and May make country houses gay,
Lambs frifk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daifies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning fit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.
Spring, the sweet Spring.
THAT SHE SUNG IN HER ARBOUR.
SITTING by a river's fide,
Where a filent stream did glide,
Muse I did of many things,
That the mind in quiet brings.
I 'gan think how some men deem
Gold their god; and some esteem
Honour is the chief content
That to man in life is lent.
And some others do contend,
Quiet none, like to a friend.
Others hold, there is no wealth
Compared to a perfect health.
Some man's mind in quiet ftands,
When he is lord of many lands:
But I did figh, and said all this
Was but a fhade of perfect bliss;
And in my thoughts I did approve,
Naught so sweet as is true love.
Love 'twixt lovers paffeth these,
When mouth kiJeth, and heart 'grees,
With folded arms and lips meeting,
Each soul another sweetly greeting;
For by the breath the soul fleeteth,
And soul with soul in killing meeteth.
If love be so sweet a thing,
That such happy bliss doth bring,
Happy is love's sugared thrall,
But unhappy maidens all,
Who esteem your virgin blisses
Sweeter than a wife's sweet killes.
No such quiet to the mind,
As true love with kiffes kind:
But if a kiss prove unchafte,
Then is true love quite disgraced.
Though love be sweet, learn this of me,
No sweet love but honesty.
ON a day, (alack the day!)
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a bloom, palling fair,
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, fick to death,
Wished himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it fin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee:
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.
OVER hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
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