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Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent:
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,
To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That sows my land:

All this, and better, dost Thou send
Me for this end:

That I should render for my part
A thankful heart,

Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly Thine :

But the acceptance-that must be,
O Lord, by Thee.



WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teemed her refreshing dew?



have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,
Or warped as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweet heart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read

'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'


A SWEET disorder in the dress
[A happy kind of carelessness ;]
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands that flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;

Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.


CHERRY ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones-come and buy ;
If so be you ask me where

They do grow?-I answer: There,
Where my Julia's lips do smile-
There's the land, or cherry-isle ;
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.



SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in its grave;

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber never gives;
But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.


SOME years of late, in eighty-eight,
As I do well remember,

It was, some say, the middle of May,
And some say in September,

And some say in September.

The Spanish train launch'd forth amain,
With many a fine bravado,

Their (as they thought, but it prov'd not)
Invincible Armado,

Invincible Armado.

There was a man that dwelt in Spain
Who shot well with a gun a,
Don Pedro hight, as black a wight
As the Knight of the Sun a,
As the Knight of the Sun a.

King Philip made him Admiral,
And bid him not to stay a,
But to destroy both man and boy
And so to come away a,

And so to come away a.

Their navy was well victualled

With bisket, pease, and bacon,

They brought two ships, well fraught with whips, But I think they were mistaken,

But I think they were mistaken.

Their men were young, munition strong, And to do us more harm a,

They thought it meet to joyn their fleet All with the Prince of Parma,

All with the Prince of Parma.

They coasted round about our land,
And so came in by Dover :
But we had men set on 'em then,
And threw the rascals over,
And threw the rascals over.

The Queen was then at Tilbury,
What could we more desire a?
Sir Francis Drake for her sweet sake
Did set them all on fire a,

Did set them all on fire a.

Then straight they fled by sea and land,
That one man kill'd threescore a,
And had not they all run away,
In truth he had kill'd more a,
In truth he had kill'd more a.

Then let them neither bray nor boast,
But if they come again a,

Let them take heed they do not speed
As they did you know when a,

As they did you know when a.



I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been;
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again can not be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or faer.

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