LOVE, I recant,
And pardon crave
That lately I offended,
But 'twas,
Alas!
To make a brave,
But no disdaine intended.
No more Ile vaunt,
For now I see,
Thou onely hast the power
To find
A heart that's free,
And slave it in an houre.
So good-luck came and on my roofe did light,
Like noyse-less snow, or as the dew of night:
Not all at once, but gently, as the trees
Are by the sun-beams tickel'd by degrees.
THE PRESENT: OR, THE BAG OF THE BEE.
FLY to my mistresse, pretty pilfring Bee,
And say thou bringst this hony-bag from me.
When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew plac't,
Mark, if her tongue, but slily, steale a taste.
If so, we live; if not, with mournfull humme,
Tole forth my death; next, to my buryall come.
LOVE bade me ask a gift,
And I no more did move,
But this, that I might shift
Still with my clothes, my love
That favour granted was;
Since which, though I love many,
Yet so it comes to passe,
That long I love not any.
THE HOCK-CART, OR HARVEST HOME:
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, MILDMAY, EARLE OF
WESTMORELAND.
COME, Sons of summer, by whose toile
We are the lords of wine and oile,
By whose tough labours and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the eares of corne, now come,
And to the pipe sing harvest home.
Come forth my lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art.
See here a Maukin, there a sheet,
As spotlesse pure as it is sweet :
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad all in linnen white as lillies.
The harvest swaines and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, heare how the rout
Of rurall younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some blesse the cart, some kisse the sheaves,
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some crosse the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroak the home-borne wheat:
While other rusticks, lesse attent
To prayers then to merryment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boyes, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and cheefe
Foundation of your feast, fat beefe :
With upper stories, mutton, veale,
And bacon, which makes full the meale,
With sev'rall dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all tempting frumentie.
And for to make the merry cheere,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beere;
Which freely drink to your lord's health;
Then to the plough, the common-wealth;
Next to your flailes, your fanes, your fatts;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats:
To the rough sickle, and crookt sythe,
Drink, frollick boyes, till all be blythe.
Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindfull that the lab'ring neat,
As you, may have their fill of meat.
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient oxe unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they'r hang'd up now.
And, you must know your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must whose food fils you ;
And that this pleasure is like raine,
Not sent ye for to drowne your paine,
But for to make it spring again.
TO-MORROW, Julia, I betimes must rise,
For some small fault to offer sacrifice:
The altar's ready, fire to consume
The fat-breathe thou, and there's the rich perfume.
LET but thy voice engender with the string, And angels will be borne while thou dost sing
HE that will not love, must be
My scholar, and learn this of me :—
There be in love as many feares
As the summer's corne has ears;
Sighs, and sobs, and sorrowes more
Than the sand that makes the shore;
Freezing cold, and firie heats,
Fainting swoones, and deadly sweats;
Now an ague, then a fever,
Both tormenting lovers ever.
Wood'st thou know, besides all these,
How hard a woman 'tis to please?
How crosse, how sullen, and how soone
She shifts and changes like the moone;
How false, how hollow she's in heart;
And how she is her owne least part:
How high she's prized, and worth but small?—
Little thou't love, or not at all.
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