A SONG.

IN PRAISE OF A BEGGAR'S LIFE.

[1602.]

BRIGHT fbines the sun, play, beggars, play,
Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.

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,
Both fields and freets we beggars fill:
Nor care to get, nor fear to keep,
Did ever break a beggar's sleep.

Bright fbines the sun, play, beggars, play,
Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.

A hundred head of black and white
Upon our gowns securely feed;
If any dares his master bite,

He dies therefor, as sure as creed.

Thus beggars lord it as they please;
And only beggars live at ease.

Bright bines the sun, play, beggars, play,
Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.

DAVISON'S POETICAL RHAPSODY.

ODE.

PETITION TO HAVE HER LEAVE TO DIE.

[1602.]

WHEN will the fountain of my tears be dry?
When will my fighs be spent?
When will defire agree to let me die?
When will thy heart relent?

It is not for my life I plead,

Since death the way to reft doth lead;
But ftay for thy consent,

Left thou be discontent.

For if myself without thy leave I kill,
My ghoft will never reft;

So hath it sworn to work thine only will,
And holds that ever beft.

For fince it only lives by thee,
Good reason thou the ruler be:

Then give me leave to die,
And how thy power thereby.

DAVISON'S POETICAL RHAPSODY.

MADRIGAL.

[1602.]

Mr love in her attire doth how her wit,
It doth so well become her;

For every season fhe hath dreffings fit,
For winter, spring, and summer.
No beauty he doth miss,

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,
That all the world may know 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,
My joys, kept in full well,

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;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow:
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds filled with snow:
Yet them nor peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them ftill;

Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

ALLISON'S HOUR'S RECREATION IN MUSIC.

SONG.
[1606?]

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
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind,

That kifes every thing it meets;
And fince thou canst with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be kiffed by none.

The morning rose, that untouched ftands,

Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells!
But plucked and ftrained through ruder hands,
Her sweets no longer with her dwells;
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her one by one.

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,
When thou haft handled been awhile,

Like sere flowers to be thrown afide:

And I will figh, while some will smile,
To see thy love for more than one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.