« ZurückWeiter »
(Perhaps addressed to his Wife.]
Seven times hath Janus ta’en new year by hand, Seven times hath blustering March blown forth his
power, To drive out April buds, by sea and land, For minion May to deck most trim with flower: Seven times hath temperate Ver like pageant plaid; And pleasant Æstas eke, her flowers told ; Seven times Autumnus' heat hath been delay'd, With Hyems' boisterous blasts, and bitter cold : Seven times the thirteen moons have changed hue; Seven times the sun his course hath gone about: Seven times each bird his nest hath built anew, Since first time you to serve I choosed out: Still yours am I, though thus the time have past, And trust to be, as long as life shall last.
THE THREE RAVENS.
Down a down, hey down, hey down,
With a down ;
With a down, derry, derry, derry, down, down.
The one of them said to his make,'
Down in yonder green field:
His hounds they lie down at his feet,
ii.e. his mate,
His hawks they fly so eagerly,
Down there comes a fallow doe,
her back And carried him to earthen lake:
She buried him before the prime;
God send every gentleman,
This elegant and pathetic little piece is taken from Mr. Ritson's Collection of Ancient Songs, (Johnson, 1792) where it is printed, together with the original music., The burthen of the first stanza is to be supplied in all the others,
The perfect Trial of a faithful Friend.
[From the Paradise of Dainty Devices.] Nor stayed state, but feeble stay, Not costly robes, but bare array; Not passed wealth, but present want, Not heaped store, but slender scant; Not plenty's purse, but poor estate, Not happy hap, but froward fate; Not wish at will, but want of joy, Not heart's good health, but heart's annoy; Not freedom's use, but prison's thrall, Not costly seat, but lowest fall; Not weal I mean, but wretched woe, Doth truly try the friend from foe: And nought but froward fortune proyes, Who fawning feigns, or simply loves.
* Mr. Stevens supposed the real name to be Pooley, but no anecdotes of this author are known.
ON THE CERTAINTY OF DEATH.
[From the same Collection.]
[Abridged from 6 stanzas.) To die, dame nature did man frame:
Death is a thing most perfect sure: We ought not nature's works to blame,
She made no thing still to endure. That law she made when we were born,
That hence we should return again : To render right we must not scorn:
Death is due debt: it is no pain.
Death hath in all the earth a right;
His power is great, it stretcheth far: No lord, no prince, can scape his might;
No creature can his duty bar.
The chaste, the meek, the free of heart; The rich, the poor-who can deny
Have yielded all unto his dart.
Seeing no man then can death escape,
Nor hire him hence for any gain,