The vertue of her lively lookes

Excells the precious stone;

I wishe to have none other bookes
To reade or look upon.

In eche of her two christal eyes
Smyleth a naked boy;

It would you all in heart suffise
To see that lampe of joy.

I thinke Nature hath lost the moulde
Where she her shape did take;

Or else I doubt if Nature coulde
So fayre a creature make.

She may be well comparde

Unto the phenix kind,

Whose like was never seene nor heard

That any man can fynde.

In lyfe she is Diana chast;

In trouth, Penelope ;

In word and eke in deede stedfast:
What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so farre,
Who could find such a wight?

Her beauty twinkleth lyke a starre
Within the frosty night.

Her roseall colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace;

More ruddier too than is the rose
Within her lively face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her mete,

Ne at no wanton playe,

Nor gazing in an open strete,

Nor gadding as astray.

The modest myrth that she doth use
Is mixt with shamefastnesse ;
All vyce she doth wholly refuse,
And hated ydlenesse.

O Lord, it is a world to see
How virtue can repayre

And decke in her such honestie,
Whome nature made so fayre !

How might I doe to get a graffe
Of this unspotted tree?

For all the rest are playne but chaffe,
Which seeme good corne to be.

This gyft alone I shall her geve,

When death doth what he can ;

Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.

THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FINDE EASE OF THEYR PAINE, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER.

I SEE there is no sort

Of things that live in griefe,

Which at sometime may not resort
Wheras they have reliefe.

The stricken dere, by kinde,
Of death that standes in awe,
For his recure an herbe can fynde
The arrowe to withdrawe.

The chased dere hath soyle
To coole him in his heate;
The asse, after his mery toyle,
In stable up is set.

The cony hath his cave,

The little byrd his nest,

From heate and colde themselves to save
At all times as they list.

The owle, with feble sight,

Lyes lurking in the leaves; The sparrow in the frosty night May shroude her in the eaves.

But wo to me, alas!

In sunne nor yet in shade, I cannot finde a resting place My burden to unlade.

But day by day still beares
The burden on my backe,

With weeping eyen and watry teares,
To holde my hope abacke.

All things, I see, have place
Wherein they bowe or bende,
Save this, alas! my woful case,
Which no where fyndeth ende.

THE UNCERTAYNE STATE OF A LOVER.

LYKE as the rage of

rayne

Fills rivers with excesse,

And as the drought agayne

Doth draw them lesse and lesse,

So I both fall and clyme,

With yea and no sometime.

As they swell hie and hie,

So doth encrease my state, As they fall drye and drye, So doth my welth abate. As yea is mixt with no,

So mirth is mixt with wo.

As nothing can endure

That lives and lackes reliefe ;

So nothing can stand sure

Where change doth reign as chiefe ;
Wherefore I must intende

To bowe when others bende;

And, when they laugh, to smile;
And, when they weep, to wayle;
And, when they craft, begyle;
And, when they fight, assayle:
And thinke there is no change

Can make them seme too strange.

Oh, most unhappy slave!

What man may leade this course?

To lacke that he would have,
Or els to do much worse:
These be rewards for such
As live and love too much.