Against the wrackful siege of batt'ring days,

When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack,

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest. lie hid?

ΙΟ

Lest the wise world should look into your moan

And mock you with me after I am gone.

LXXIII

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

foot back?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

LXVI

the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 5
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take
away,

cry:

As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, 5
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, 10
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,1
And captive good attending captain ill.
Tired with all these, from these would I

be gone,

ΙΟ

rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such

fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, ΙΟ As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

XCVIII

Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's

loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store;10 Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more:

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

ELIZABETHAN SONG WRITERS

ANONYMOUS

BACK AND SIDE GO BARE, GO BARE

Back and side go bare, go bare,

Both hand and foot go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,

Whether it be new or old.

I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;

But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,

I am nothing a-cold;

I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side, etc.

I love no roast but a nutbrown toast,
And a crab1 laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I not desire.

No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if it would,

I am so wrapt and throughly lapt
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side, etc.

And Tib my wife, that as her life

Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till ye may see

5

ΙΟ

15

20

25

Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,

No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to feed a loving eye;

To none of these I yield as thrall:

For why? My mind doth serve for all.

I see how plenty [surfeits] oft,

And hasty climbers soon do fall;

I see that those which are aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all; They get with toil, they keep with fear: Such cares my mind could never bear. Content to live, this is my stay;

I seek no more than may suffice; I press to bear no haughty sway;

Look, what I lack my mind supplies: Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.

5

IO

15

20

Some have too much, yet still do crave;25

I little have, and seek no more.

I laugh not at another's loss;

I grudge not at another's pain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain:
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;
Their treasure is their only trust;

A cloaked craft their store of skill:
But all the pleasure that I find
Is to maintain a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease;

My conscience clear my chief defence; I neither seek by bribes to please,

Nor by deceit to breed offence: Thus do I live; thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I!

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586)

LOVE IS DEAD

35

40

45

For Love is dead;

Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth

My mistress' marble heart;

Which epitaph containeth,

2 frenzy.

25

5

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O'tis the ravished nightingale.
"Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note;
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing,
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring;
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring!

I wagered.

GEORGE PEELE (1558?-1597?)

CUPID'S CURSE

ENONE. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be;

The fairest shepherd on our

green,

A love for any lady.

Fair and fair, and twice so fair,5
As fair as any may be;

Thy love is fair for thee alone,
And for no other lady.

CEN. My love is fair, my love is gay,
As fresh as bin2 the flowers in

May,

And of my love my roundelay,

My merry, merry roundelay,

Concludes with Cupid's curse,

IO

"They that do change old love for

new,

Pray gods they change for worse!" 15 AMBO SIMUL.3 They that do change, etc. EN. Fair and fair, etc.

PAR. Fair and fair, etc.

Thy love is fair, etc.

EN. My love can pipe, my love can

sing,

My love can1 many a pretty thing,
And of his lovely praises ring

My merry, merry roundelays,
Amen to Cupid's curse,-

"They that do change," etc. PAR. They that do change, etc. AMBO. Fair and fair, etc.

20

25

THOMAS LODGE (1558?-1625)

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL

Love in my bosom like a bee

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.

Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he,
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing;
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.
Whist,2 wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offence.

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,

5

ΙΟ

15

20

I'll count your power not worth a pin. 25 Alas! what hereby shall I win