They look like rose-buds filled with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry.
Her eyes, like angels, watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh
Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry.
From The Fourth Book of Airs.
ND is it night? are they thine eyes that shine?
Are we alone, and here? and here, alone?
May I come near, may I but touch thy shrine? Is jealousy asleep, and is he gone?
O Gods, no more! silence my lips with thine!
Lips, kisses, joys, hap, blessing most divine!
dear! our griefs are turn'd to night, And night to joys; night blinds pale envy's eyes; Silence and sleep prepare us our delight,
O cease we then our woes, our griefs, our cries:
O vanish words! words do but passions move:
O dearest life! joy's sweet! O sweetest love!
OFT, Cupid, soft, there is no haste, For all unkindness gone and past; Since thou wilt needs forsake me so, Let us part friends before thou
Still shalt thou have my heart to use,
When otherwise I cannot chuse :
My life thou mayst command sans doubt,
Command, I say,-and go without.
And if that I do ever prove
False and unkind to gentle Love,
I'll not desire to live a day
Nor any longer-than I may.
I'll daily bless the little god,—
But not without a smarting rod.
Wilt thou still unkindly leave me?
Now I pray God,-—all ill go with thee!
From The Muses' Garden of Delights.
THE sea hath many thousand sands,
The sun hath motes as many:
The sky is full of stars, and love
As full of woes as any:
Believe me, that do know the elf,
And make no trial by thyself.
It is in truth a pretty toy
For babes to play withal;
But O the honies of our youth
Are oft our age's gall!
Self-proof in time will make thee know
He was a prophet told thee so:
A prophet that, Cassandra-like,
Tells truth without belief;
For headstrong youth will run his race,
Although his goal be grief:
Love's martyr, when his heat is past,
Proves Care's confessor at the last.
From The Muses' Garden of Delights.
Tuwhoo, Tuwhit, Tuwhit,
Tuwhoo-o-o
WEET Suffolk owl, so trimly dight
With feathers like a lady bright,
Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night,
Te whit, te whoo!
Thy note, that forth so freely rolls,
With shrill command the mouse controls,
And sings a dirge for dying souls,
Te whit, te whoo!
From Songs of Divers Airs and Natures.
Thomas Middleton (1570?-1627)
APPY times we live to see,
Whose master is Simplicity:
This is the age where blessings flow,
In joy we reap, in peace we sow;
We do good deeds without delay,
We promise and we keep our day;
We love for virtue, not for wealth,
We drink no healths but all for health;
We sing, we dance, we pipe, we play,
Our work's continual holiday:
We live in poor contented sort,
Yet neither beg nor come at court.
From The World tost at Teanis.
A Complaint
VO see a strange outlandish fowl,
A quaint baboon, an ape, an owl,
A dancing bear, a giant's bone,
A foolish engine move alone,
A morris-dance, a puppet-play,
Mad Tom to sing a roundelay,
A woman dancing on a rope,
Bull-baiting also at the Hope,
A rimer's jests, a juggler's cheats,
A tumbler showing cunning feats,
Or players acting on a stage,
There goes the bounty of our age:
But unto any pious motion
There's little coin and less devotion.
From St. Paul's Church, her Bill for the Partiment.
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