FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice unto thy good, though it be small,
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness;
Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o'er all.
Savor no more than thee behoven shall,
Rede well thy self that other folk can'st rede,
And Truth thee shalt deliver-'tis no drede.
That thee is sent receive in buxomness:
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall.
Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim, forth-on, best out of thy stall;
Look up on high, and thank the God of all!
Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead,
And Truth thee shalt deliver-'tis no drede.
MIRRY Margaret
As midsomer flowre,
Gentil as faucoun
Or hauke of the towre;
With solace and gladnes
Moch mirth and no madnes
All good and no badnes
So joyously,
So maydenly,
So womanly
Her demenynge
In every thynge,
Far, far passynge
That I can endite
Or suffice to write
Of mirry Margarete
As midsomer flowre
Gentil as faucoun
Or hauke of the towre!
As pacient and as styll
And as ful of good wil
As fayre Isiphill,
Coliander,
Swete Pomaunder,
Good Cassander,
Stedfast of thought,
Wel made, wel wrought,
Far may be soughte
Erst ye can fynde
So curteise, so kynde
As mirry Margarete
This midsomer flowre,
Gentil as faucoun
Or hauke of the towre!
AH! my swete swetyng,
My lytyl pretie swetyng!
My swetyng wyl I loue whereuer I goe:
She is soe proper and pure,
Stedfaste, stabyll, and demure,—
There is nonne suche, ye may be sure,
As my swete swetyng.
In all thys worlde, as thynketh mee,
Is nonne soe plesaunte to my 'ee,
That I am gladde soe ofte to see,
As my swete swetynge.
When I beholde my swetyng swete,
Her face, her haundes, her minion fete,
They seeme to mee ther is nonne soe mete
As my swete swetynge.
Above alle others prayse must I,
And loue my pretie pigsnye;
For nonne I finde so womanlie
As my swete swetynge.
She is soe proper and pure,
Stedfaste, stabyll, and demure,—
There is nonne suche, ye may be sure,
As my swete swetynge.
WHEREIN ECHE THING RENEWES SAUE ONELY THE LOVER.
THE Soote season, that bud and blome forth brings,
With grene hath clad the hill, and eke the vale:
The nightingale with fethers newe she sings:
The turtle to her mate hath tolde her tale:
Somer is come, for euery spray now springs:
The hart hath hong his old hed on the pale;
The bucke in brake his winter coate he flings:
The fishes flete with new repaired scale:
The adder all her slough away she flings;
The swift swalow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mings;
Winter is worne, that was the floures bale;
And thus I see among these pleasaunt things
Eche care decayes; and yet my sorow springs.
Henry Howard (Earl of Surrey).
WORSHIP, O ye that lovers be, this May!
For of your bliss the Calends are begun;
And sing with us, 'Away! winter, away!
Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun;'
Awake for shame that have your heavens won;
And amorously lift up your headës all,
Thank Love that list you to his mercy call!
King James I. (of Scotland).
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! the sweet Spring!
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