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THE SECOND PART.

„Of the Jews crueltie: setting foorth the mercifulnesse of the Judge towards the Marchant."

Some offered for his hundred crownes

Five hundred for to pay;

And some a thousand, two or three,
Yet still he did denay.

And at the last ten thousand crownes
They offered him to save:
Gernutus sayd, "I will no gold,
My forfeite I will have.

"A pound of fleshe is my demand,
And that shall be my hire."

Then sayd the judge, "Yet, good my friend,

Let me of you desire,

"To take the flesh from such a place,

As yet you let him live:

Do so,

and lo! and hundred crownes

To thee here will I give."

"No, no," quoth he, "no, judgment here;

For this it shall be tride;

For I will have my pound of fleshe

From under his right side."

It grieved all the companie

His crueltie to see,

For neither friend nor foe could helpe

But he must spoyled bee.

The bloudie Jew now ready is
With whetted blade in hand,
To spoyle the bloud of innocent,
By forfeit of his bond.

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And as he was about to strike
In him the deadly blow,

"Stay" (quoth the judge) "thy crueltie;
I charge thee to do so.

"Sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have,
Which is of flesh a pound,

See that thou shed no drop of bloud,
Nor yet the man confound.

"For if thou doe, like murderer,
Thou here shalt hanged bee:
Likewise of flesh see that thou cut
No more than longes to thee.

"For if thou take either more or lesse,
To the value of a mite,
Thou shalt be hanged presently,

As is both law and right."

Gernutus now waxt franticke mad,
And wotes not what to say;
Quoth he at last, "Ten thousand crownes
I will that he shall pay;

"And so I graunt to set him free."

The judge doth answere make; "You shall not have a penny given;

Your forfeyture now take."

At the last he doth demaund

But for to have his owne:

"No," quoth the judge, "doe as you list, Thy judgement shall be showne.

"Either take your pound of flesh," quoth he, "Or cancell me your bond:"

"O cruell judge," then quoth the Jew,

"That doth against me stand!"

And so with griping grieved mind
He biddeth them farewell:

Then all the people prays'd the Lord,
That ever this heard tell.

Good people, that doe heare this song,
For trueth I dare well say,

That many a wretch as ill as hee
Doth live now at this day;

That seeketh nothing but the spoyle
Of many a wealthy man,
And for to trap the innocent
Deviseth what they can.

From whome the Lord deliver me,
And every Christian too,

And send to them like sentence eke
That meaneth so to doe.

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Who is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness, And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.

THE LARK.

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:

With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise.

MAN'S INGRATITUDE.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

BEAUTY.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly;

A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass that's broken presently;

A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,

So beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

SONNET.

LXXI.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it; for I love you so,

That I in your sweets thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I say) you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

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