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I have no hopes but one,

Which is of heavenly reign; Effects attain'd, or not desir'd,

All lower hopes refrain.

I feel no care of coin;

Well-doing is my wealth;
My mind to me an empire is,
While Grace affordeth health.

I clip high climbing thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride;
Their fall is worst, that from the height
Of greatest honours slide.

Sith sails of largest size

The storm doth soonest tear,

I bear so low and small a sail,
As freeeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with Rage,

While Fury's flame doth burn;

It is in vain to stop the stream,
Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out,

And ebbing wrath doth end,

I turn a late enraged foe

Into a quiet friend.

And taught with often proof,
A temper'd calm I find

To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.

Spare diet is my fare,

My clothes more fit than fine;
I know I feed and clothe a foe,
That pamper'd would repine.

I envy not their hap,

Whom Favour doth advance;
I take no pleasure in their pain,
That have less happy chance.

To rise by others' fall

I deem a losing gain;

All states with others' ruins built,

To ruin run amain.

No change of Fortune's calms

Can cast my comforts down; When Fortune smiles, I smile to think How quickly she will frown.

And when in froward mood

She proves an angry foe,

Small gain I found to let her come;
Less loss to let her go.

ST. PETER's afflicted mind.

By the same.

From his "Mæoniæ," 1595.

Ir that the sick man groan,

Or orphan mourn his loss,

If wounded wretch may rue his harms, Or caitiff shew his cross:

If heart consum'd with care

May utter signs of pain,

Then may my breast be Sorrow's home,

And tongue with cause complain.

My malady is sin,

And languor of the mind;
My body but a lazar's couch,

Wherein my soul is pin'd.

The care of heavenly kind

Is dead to my relief;

Forlorn, and left, like orphan child,
With sighs I feed my grief.

My wounds with mortal smart
My dying soul torment,

And prisoner to my own mishaps,
My follies I repent.

My heart is but the haunt,

Where all dislikes do keep:

And who can blame so lost a wretch,
Though tears of blood he weep?

SONG, 1598,a

SWEET-heart, arise! why do you sleep,
When lovers wanton sports do keep?
The sun doth shine; the birds do sing,
And May delight and joy doth bring:
Then join we hands, and dance till night:
"Tis pity Love should want his right.

a From "eelks's Ballets and Madrigals," 1598.

SONG, 1598.

From the same.

On the plains, Fairy trains

Were a treading measures;

Satyrs play'd, Fairies staid,

At the stop's set leisures:

Nymphs began to come in quickly,

Thick and threefold:

Now they dance, now they prance,
Present there to behold.

SONG, 1598.

From the same.

SAY, dainty Dames, shall we go play,

And run among the flowers gay; About the valleys and high hills Which Flora with her glory fills? The gentle heart will soon be won, To dance and sport, till day be done.

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