Flee ydilteth, which is the greatest lat;
Bot, sen that death to all is destinat,

Let us employ that tyme that God hath send us,
In doing well, that good men may commend us.

W

Sonnet

E find by proof, that into every age

In Phœbus' art some glistering star did shine,
Who, worthy scholars to the Muses sage,
Fulfill'd their Countries with their works divine.
So Homer was a sounding trumpet fine
Amongst the Greeks, into his learned days;

So Virgil was among the Romans syne
A sprite sublim'd, a pillar of their praise!
So lofty Petrarch his renown did blaze
In tongue Italic, in a sugar'd style,

And to the circled skies his name did raise;
For he, by poems that he did compile,

Led in triumph, Love, Chasteness, Death, and Fame:
But thou triumphs o'er Petrarch's proper name!

Signed "J. Rex."

A Sonnet prefixed to Fowler's Translation of The Triumphs of Petrarch.

A Sonnet

Addressed by King James to his son Prince

GOD gives

Henry

OD gives not kings the stile of Gods in vaine,
For on his throne his scepter do they swey:
And as their subjects ought them to obey,
So kings should feare and serve their God againe,
If then ye would enjoy a happie reigne,

Observe the statutes of our heavenly King:
And from his law make all your laws to spring:
Since his lieutenant here ye should remaine,
Rewarde the just, be stedfast, true and plaine;
Represse the proud, maintayning aye the right;
Walke always so, as ever in His sight,
Who guardes the godly, plaguing the prophane.
And so ye shall in princely vertues shine,
Resembling right your mightie King divine.

H

Thomas Campion (—1619)

ARDEN now thy tired heart with more than flinty rage!

Ne'er let her false tears henceforth thy constant grief assuage!

Once true happy days thou saw'st, when she stood firm and kind;

Both as one then lived, and held one ear, one tongue, one mind:

But now those bright hours be fled and never may return : What then remains but her untruths to mourn!

Silly trait'ress, who shall now thy careless tresses place? Who thy pretty talk supply? whose ear thy music grace? Who shall thy bright eyes admire, what lips triumph with thine?

Day by day who 'll visit thee and say "Th' art only mine"? Such a time there was, God wot, but such shall never be. Too oft, I fear, thou wilt remember me.

From Two Books of Airs.

L

OVE me or not, love her I must or die;

Leave me or not, follow her needs must I.

O that her grace would my wished comforts give!

How rich in her, how happy I should live!

All my desire, all my delight should be
Her to enjoy, her to unite with me;
Envy should cease, her would I love alone:
Who loves by looks is seldom true to one.