A SONG. IN PRAISE OF A BEGGAR'S LIFE. [1602.] BRIGHT fbines the sun, play, beggars, play, What noise of viols is so sweet As when our merry clappers ring? What mirth doth want where beggars meet? A beggar's life is for a king: Eat, drink, and play; fleep when we lift, Go where we will, so stocks be missed. Bright shines the sun, play, beggars, play, Here's scraps enough to serve to-day. The world is ours, and ours alone, For we alone have worlds at will: We purchase not, 'tis all our own, Bright fbines the sun, play, beggars, play, A hundred head of black and white He dies therefor, as sure as creed. Thus beggars lord it as they please; Bright bines the sun, play, beggars, play, DAVISON'S POETICAL RHAPSODY. ODE. PETITION TO HAVE HER LEAVE TO DIE. [1602.] WHEN will the fountain of my tears be dry? It is not for my life I plead, Since death the way to reft doth lead; Left thou be discontent. For if myself without thy leave I kill, So hath it sworn to work thine only will, For fince it only lives by thee, Then give me leave to die, DAVISON'S POETICAL RHAPSODY. MADRIGAL. [1602.] Mr love in her attire doth how her wit, For every season fhe hath dreffings fit, When all her robes are on: For Beauty's self he is When all her robes are gone. DAVISON'S POETICAL RHAPSODY. MADRIGAL. [1604.] HOLD out, my heart, with joy's delights accloyed; Hold out, my heart, and show it, What sweet content thou lately haft enjoyed. She that, Come, dear, would say, Then laugh, and smile, and run away, And if I stayed her would cry, Nay, Fie, for fhame, fie! My true love not regarding, Hath given me at length his full rewarding: So that unless I tell The joys that overfill me, I know will kill me. WEELKES'S MADRIGALS. THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. [1606.] THERE is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies blow; Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, They look like rose-buds filled with snow: Her eyes like angels watch them ftill; Her brows like bended bows do stand, ALLISON'S HOUR'S RECREATION IN MUSIC. SONG. I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone, As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find That kifes every thing it meets; The morning rose, that untouched ftands, Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells! Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, Like sere flowers to be thrown afide: And I will figh, while some will smile, SIR ROBERT AYTON. |