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Of men then beasts. But O! th' exceeding grace
Of highest God that loves his creatures so,
And all his workes with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed Angels he sends to and fro,

To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe.

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II.

How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succour us that succour want!
How oft do they with golden pineons cleave
The flitting skyes, like flying Pursuivant,
Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant!
They for us fight, they watch and dewly ward,
And their bright sqadrons round about us plant;
And all for love, and nothing for reward.

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O! why should hevenly God to men have such regard?

THE COURTIER

(From Mother Hubberd's Tale, 1591)

Most miserable man, whom wicked fate
Hath brought to court, to sue for had ywist,

That few have found, and manie one hath mist!
Full little knowest thou that hast not tride,
What hell it is in suing long to bide:

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To loose good dayes, that might be better spent;
To wast long nights in pensive discontent;
To speed to day, to be put back tomorrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow;
To have thy Princes grace, yet want her Peeres;
To have thy asking, yet waite manie yeeres;
To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares;
To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires;

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To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to ronne,
To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.
Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end,
That doth his life in so long tendance spend!
Who ever leaves sweete home, where meane estate
In safe assurance, without strife or hate,
Findes all things needfull for contentment meeke,
And will to court for shadowes vaine to seeke,
Or hope to gaine, himselfe will one dais trie,
That curse God send unto mine enemie!

SONNET XL.

(From Amoretti, 1595)

Mark when she smiles with amiable cheare,
And tell me whereto can ye lyken it;
When on each eyelid sweetly doe appeare
An hundred Graces as in shade to sit.
Lykest it seemeth, in my simple wit,
Unto the fayre sunshine in somers day;
That, when a dreadfull storm away is flit,

Thrugh the broad world doth spred his goodly ray:
At sight whereof, each bird that sits on spray,
And every beast that to his den was fled,
Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay,

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And to thy light lift up their drouping hed.
So my storme-beaten hart likewise is cheared
With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are cleared.

SONNET LXXV.

(From the same)

One day I wrote her name upon the strand;
But came the waves and washed it away:

Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand;

And came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray.

"Vayne man," sayd she, " that doest in vayne assay
A mortall thing so to immortalize;
For I myselve shall lyke to this decay,
And eek my name bee wyped out lykewize.”
"Not so" (quod I); "let baser things devize
To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the hevens wryte your glorious name;

Where, when as death shall all the world subdew,
Our love shall live, and later life renew."

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ELIZABETHAN SONGS AND LYRICS

John Lyly

1553-1606

APELLES' SONG

(From Alexander and Campaspe, 1584; acted 1581)

Cupid and my Campaspe played

At cards for kisses,-Cupid paid;

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,

His mother's doves, and team of sparrows:
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

Robert Greene

1560-1592

CONTENT

(From Farewell to Folly, 1591)

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content,
The quiet mind is richer than a crown,

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent,

The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown:

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss,

The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride nor care,
The mean that grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare,
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss:
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

Christopher Marlowe

1564-1593

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THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE (In The Passionate Pilgrim, 1599, enlarged form in England's Helicon, 1600)

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

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And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,

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A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

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