ANONYMOUS [A Lament for Our Lady’s Shrine at Walsingham]

	In the wrackes of Walsingam
	Whom should I chuse,
	But the Queene of Walsingam
	to be guide to my muse
	Then thou Prince of Walsingam
	graunt me to frame,
	Bitter plaintes to rewe thy wronge,
	bitter wo for thy name,
	Bitter was it oh to see,
	The seely sheepe
	Murdred by the raveninge wolves
	While the sheephardes did sleep,
	Bitter was it oh to vewe
	the sacred vyne,
	Whiles the gardiners plaied all close,
	rooted up by the swine
	Bitter bitter oh to behould,
	the grasse to growe
	Where the walles of Walsingam
	so statly did shewe,
	Such were the workes of Walsingam:
	while shee did stand
	Such are the wrackes as now do shewe
	of that holy land,
	Levell Levell with the ground
	the towres doe lye
	Which with their golden glitteringe tops
	Pearsed once to the skye,
	Wher weare gates no gates ar nowe,
	the waies unknowen
	Wher the presse of peares did passe
	While her fame far was blowen
	Oules do scrike wher the sweetest himnes
	lately weer songe
	Toades and serpentes hold ther dennes,
	Wher the Palmers did thronge
	Weepe weepe o Walsingam
	Whose dayes are nightes
	Blessinges turned to blasphemies
	Holy deedes to dispites,
	Sinne is wher our Ladie sate
	Heaven turned is to Hell.
	Sathan sittes wher our Lord did swaye
	Walsingam oh farewell.

(1868)

ANONYMOUS

	Fine knacks for ladies, cheape choise brave and new,
	Good penniworths but mony cannot move,
	I keep a faier but for the faier to view,
	A beggar may bee liberall of love,
	Though all my wares bee trash the hart is true,
	The hart is true,
	The hart is true.

	Great gifts are guiles and looke for gifts againe,
	My trifles come, as treasures from my minde,
	It is a precious Jewell to bee plaine,
	Sometimes in shell th’ orients pearles we finde,
	Of others take a sheaf, of mee a graine,
	Of me a graine,
	Of me a graine.

	Within this packe pinnes points laces and gloves,
	And divers toies fitting a country faier,
	But in my hart where duety serves and loves,
	Turtels and twins, courts brood, a heavenly paier:
	Happy the hart that thincks of no removes,
	Of no removes,
	Of no removes.

ANONYMOUS

	Thule, the period of cosmography,
	Doth vaunt of Hecla, whose sulphurious fire
	Doth melt the frozen clime and thaw the sky;
	Trinacrian Ætna’s flames ascend not higher.
	These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I,
	Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.

	The Andalusian merchant, that returns
	Laden with cochineal and China dishes,
	Reports in Spain how strangely Fogo burns
	Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes.
	These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I,
	Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.

JOHN HOLMES 1601

	Thus Bonny-boots the birthday celebrated
	Of her his lady dearest,
	Fair Oriana, which to his heart was nearest:
	The nymphs and shepherds feasted

	With clowted cream were, and to sing requested.
	Lo here the fair created,
	Quoth he, the world’s chief goddess.
	Sing then, for she is Bonny-boots’ sweet mistress.
	Then sang the shepherds and nymphs of Diana:
	Long live fair Oriana.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from Twelfth Night

Exeunt.

	Clowne sings
	When that I was and a little tiny boy,
	with hey, ho, the winde and the raine:
	A foolish thing was but a toy,
	for the raine it raineth every day.

	But when I came to mans estate,
	with hey ho, the winde and the raine:
	Gainst Knaves and Theeves men shut their gate,
	for the raine it raineth every day.

	But when I came alas to wive,
	with hey ho, the winde and the raine:
	By swaggering could I never thrive,
	for the raine it raineth every day.

	But when I came unto my beds,
	with hey ho, the winde and the raine:
	With tosspottes still had drunken heades,
	for the raine it raineth every day.

	A great while ago the world begon,
	hey ho, the winde and the raine:
	But that’s all one, our play is done,
	and wee’l strive to please you every day.

(1623)

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE [The Phoenix and Turtle]

	Let the bird of lowdest lay,
	On the sole Arabian tree,
	Herauld sad and trumpet be:
	To whose sound chaste wings obay.

	But thou shriking harbinger,
	Foule precurrer of the fiend,
	Augour of the fevers end,
	To this troupe come thou not neere.

	From this Session interdict
	Every foule of tyrant wing,
	Save the Eagle feath’red King,
	Keepe the obsequie so strict.

	Let the Priest in Surples white,
	That defunctive Musicke can,
	Be the death-devining Swan,
	Lest the Requiem lacke his right.

	And thou treble dated Crow,
	That thy sable gender mak’st,
	With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,
	Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

	Here the Antheme doth commence,
	Love and Constancie is dead,
	Phœnix and the Turtle fled,
	In a mutuall flame from hence.

	So they lov’d as love in twaine,
	Had the essence but in one,
	Two distincts, Division none,
	Number there in love was slaine.

	Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
	Distance and no space was seene,
	Twixt this Turtle and his Queene;
	But in them it were a wonder.

	So betweene them Love did shine,
	That the Turtle saw his right,
	Flaming in the Phœnix sight;
	Either was the others mine.

	Propertie was thus appalled,
	That the selfe was not the same:
	Single Natures double name,
	Neither two nor one was called.

	Reason in it selfe confounded,
	Saw Division grow together,
	To themselves yet either neither,
	Simple were so well compounded,

	That it cried, how true a twaine,
	Seemeth this concordant one,
	Love hath Reason, Reason none,
	If what parts, can so remaine.

	Whereupon it made this Threne,
	To the Phœnix and the Dove,
	Co-supremes and starres of Love.
	As Chorus to their Tragique Scene.

	Threnos
	Beautie, Truth, and Raritie,
	Grace in all simplicitie,
	Here enclosde, in cinders lie.

	Death is now the Phœnix nest,
	And the Turtles loyall brest,
	To eternitie doth rest.

	Leaving no posteritie,
	Twas not their infirmitie,
	It was married Chastitie.

	Truth may seeme, but cannot be,
	Beautie bragge, but tis not she,
	Truth and Beautie buried be.

	To this urne let those repaire,
	That are either true or faire,
	For these dead Birds, sigh a prayer.

THOMAS CAMPION from the Latin of Catullus

	My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
	And, though the sager sort our deedes reprove,
	Let us not way them: heav’ns great lampes doe dive
	Into their west, and strait againe revive,
	But, soone as once set is our little light,
	Then must we sleepe one ever-during night.

	If all would lead their lives in love like mee,
	Then bloudie swords and armour should not be,
	No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleepes should move,
	Unles alar’me came from the campe of love:
	But fooles do live, and wast their little light,
	And seeke with paine their ever-during night.

	When timely death my life and fortune ends,
	Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends,
	But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come,
	And with sweet pastimes grace my happie tombe;
	And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light,
	And crowne with love my ever-during night.

THOMAS CAMPION

	Followe thy faire sunne unhappy shaddowe,
	Though thou be blacke as night
	And she made all of light,
	Yet follow thy faire sunne unhappie shaddowe.

	Follow her whose light thy light depriveth,
	Though here thou liv’st disgrac’t,
	And she in heaven is plac’t,
	Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth.

	Follow those pure beames whose beautie burneth,
	That so have scorched thee,
	As thou still blacke must bee,
	Til her kind beames thy black to brightnes turneth.

	Follow her while yet her glorie shineth,
	There comes a luckles night,
	That will dim all her light,
	And this the black unhappie shade devineth.

	Follow still since so thy fates ordained,
	The Sunne must have his shade,
	Till both at once doe fade,
	The Sun still prov’d the shadow still disdained.

THOMAS CAMPION from the Latin of Propertius

	When thou must home to shades of under ground,
	And there ariv’d, a newe admired guest,
	The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round,
	White Iope, blith Hellen, and the rest,
	To heare the stories of thy finisht love,
	From that smoothe toong whose musicke hell can move:

	Then wilt thou speake of banqueting delights,
	Of masks and revels which sweete youth did make,
	Of Turnies and great challenges of knights,
	And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake:
	When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
	Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murther me.

1602 ANONYMOUS

	The lowest trees have tops, the Ant her gall,
	the flie her spleene, the little sparke his heate,
	and slender haires cast shadowes though but small,
	and Bees have stings although they be not great.
	Seas have their source, and so have shallowe springs,
	and love is love in beggers and in kings.
	Where waters smoothest run, deep are the foords,
	The diall stirres, yet none perceives it move:
	The firmest faith is in the fewest words,
	The Turtles cannot sing, and yet they love,
	True hearts have eyes and eares, no tongues to speake:
	They heare, and see, and sigh, and then they breake.

THOMAS CAMPION

	Rose-cheekt Lawra come
	Sing thou smoothly with thy beawties
	Silent musick, either other
	Sweetely gracing.
	Lovely formes do flowe
	From concent devinely framed,
	Heav’n is musick, and thy beawties
	Birth is heavenly.
	These dull notes we sing
	Discords neede for helps to grace them,
	Only beawty purely loving
	Knowes no discord:
	But still mooves delight
	Like cleare springs renu’d by flowing,
	Ever perfet, ever in them-
	selves eternall.

ANONYMOUS 1603

	Weepe you no more sad fountaines,
	What need you flowe so fast,
	Looke how the snowie mountaines,
	Heav’ns sunne doth gently waste.
	But my sunnes heav’nly eyes
	View not your weeping,
	That nowe lies sleeping
	Softly now softly lies sleeping.

	Sleepe is a reconciling,
	A rest that peace begets:
	Doth not the sunne rise smiling,
	When faire at ev’n he sets,
	Rest you, then rest sad eyes,
	Melt not in weeping,
	While she lies sleeping
	Softly now softly lies sleeping.

1604 ANONYMOUS The Passionate Mans Pilgrimage

	Supposed to be Written by One at the Point of Death
	Give me my Scallop shell of quiet,
	My staffe of Faith to walke upon,
	My Scrip of Joy, Immortall diet,
	My bottle of salvation:
	My Gowne of Glory, hopes true gage,
	And thus Ile take my pilgrimage.

	Blood must be my bodies balmer,
	No other balme will there be given
	Whilst my soule like a white Palmer
	Travels to the land of heaven,
	Over the silver mountaines,
	Where spring the Nectar fountaines:
	And there Ile kisse
	The Bowle of blisse,
	And drink my eternall fill
	On every milken hill.
	My soule will be a-dry before,
	But after it, will nere thirst more.

	And by the happie blisfull way
	More peacefull Pilgrims I shall see,
	That have shooke off their gownes of clay,
	And goe appareld fresh like mee.
	Ile bring them first
	To slake their thirst,
	And then to tast those Nectar suckets
	At the cleare wells
	Where sweetnes dwells,
	Drawne up by Saints in Christall buckets.

	And when our bottles and all we,
	Are fill’d with immortalitie:
	Then the holy paths we’ll travell
	Strewde with Rubies thicke as gravell,
	Ceilings of Diamonds, Saphire floores,
	High walles of Corall and Pearle Bowres.

	From thence to heavens Bribeless hall
	Where no corrupted voyces brall,
	No Conscience molten into gold,
	Nor forg’d accusers bought and sold,
	No cause deferd, nor vaine spent Journey,
	For there Christ is the Kings Atturney:
	Who pleades for all without degrees,
	And he hath Angells, but no fees.

	When the grand twelve million Jury,
	Of our sinnes and sinfull fury,
	Gainst our soules blacke verdicts give,
	Christ pleades his death, and then we live,
	Be thou my speaker taintless pleader,
	Unblotted Lawyer, true proceeder,
	Thou movest salvation even for almes:
	Not with a bribed Lawyers palmes.

	And this is my eternall plea,
	To him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea,
	Seeing my flesh must die so soone,
	And want a head to dine next noone,
	Just at the stroke when my vaines start and spred
	Set on my soule an everlasting head.
	Then am I readie like a palmer fit,
	To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

NICHOLAS BRETON from A Solemne Long Enduring Passion

	Wearie thoughts doe waite upon me
	Griefe hath to much over-gone me
	Time doth howerly over-toyle me,
	While deepe sorrowes seeke to spoile me
	Wit and sences all amazéd,
	In their Graces over-gazéd:
	In exceeding torments tell me,
	Never such a death befell mee.

(… )

	Let mee thinke no more on thee,
	Thou hast too much wounded me:
	And that skarre upon thy throate,
	No such starre on Stellas coate.
	Let me chide, yet with that stay,
	That did weare the skinne away:
	But alas shall I goe lower,
	In sweet similies to showe her?
	When to touch her praises tittle,
	Nature’s sweetnes is to little:
	Where each Sinow, Limme and joynt,
	Perfect shape in every point,
	From corruptions eye concealed,
	But to vertue love revealed,
	Binde my thoughts to silence speaking,
	While my hart must lye a breaking.
	Petrarche, in his thoughts divine,
	Tasso in his highest line.
	Ariosto’s best invention.
	Dante’s best obscur’d intention.
	Ovid in his sweetest vaine:
	Pastor Fidos purest straine.
	With the finest Poet’s wit,
	That of wonders ever writ:
	Were they all but now alive,
	And would for the Garland strive,
	In the gratious praise of love,
	Heere they might their passions proove.
	On such excellences grownded;
	That their wittes would be confounded.

(…)

	I have neither Plummes nor Cherries,
	Nuttes, nor Aples, nor Straw-berries;
	Pinnes nor Laces, Pointes nor gloves,
	Nor a payre of painted Doves:
	Shuttle-Cocke nor trundle ball,
	To present thy love with all:
	But a heart as true and kinde,
	As an honest faithfull minde
	Can device for to invent,
	To thy patience I present:
	At thy fairest feete it lies:
	Blesse it with thy blesséd eyes:
	Take it up into thy handes,
	At whose onely grace it standes,
	To be comforted for ever,
	Or to looke for comfort never:
	Oh it is a strange affecte,
	That my fancie doth effect.
	I am caught and can not start,
	Wit and reason, eye and heart:
	All are witnesses to mee,
	Love hath sworne me slave to thee,
	Let me then be but thy slave,
	And no further favour crave:
	Send mee foorth to tende thy flocke,
	On the highest Mountaine rocke.
	Or commaund me but to goe,
	To the valley grownd belowe:
	All shall be a like to me,
	Where it please thee I shall bee.
	Let my face be what thou wilt:
	Save my life, or see it spilt.
	Keepe me fasting on thy Mountaine:
	Charge me not come neere thy Fountaine.
	In the stormes and bitter blastes,
	Where the skie all overcasts.
	In the coldest frost and snowe,
	That the earth did ever knowe:
	Let me sit and bite my thumbes,
	Where I see no comfort comes.
	All the sorrowes I can proove,
	Cannot put me from my love.
	Tell me that thou art content,
	To beholde me passion-rente,
	That thou know’st I deerely love thee,
	Yet withall it cannot moove thee.
	That thy pride doth growe so great,
	Nothing can thy grace intreate,
	That thou wilt so cruell bee,
	As to kill my love and mee:
	That thou wilt no foode reserve,
	But my flockes and I shall sterve.
	Be thy rage yet nere so great,
	When my little Lambes doe bleate,
	To beholde their Shepheard die:
	Then will truth her passion trie.
	How a Hart it selfe hath spent,
	With concealing of content.

1607 BEN JONSON / CATULLUS from Volpone

	[Volpone sings.]
	Come my CELIA, let us prove,
	While we may, the sports of love;
	Time will not be ours, for ever:
	He, at length, our good will sever.
	Spend not then his guifts in vaine.
	Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:
	But if once we loose this light,
	’Tis, with us, perpetuall night.
	Why should we deferre our joyes?
	Fame, and rumor are but toyes.
	Cannot we delude the eyes
	Of a few poore houshold spyes?
	Or his easier eares beguile,
	So removed by our wile?
	’Tis no sinne, loves fruit to steale,
	But the sweet theft to reveale:
	To be taken, to be seene,
	These have crimes accounted beene.

ANONYMOUS 1608

	Ay me, alas, heigh ho, heigh ho!
	Thus doth Messalina go
	Up and down the house a-crying,
	For her monkey lies a-dying.
	Death, thou art too cruel
	To bereave her jewel,
	Or to make a seizure
	Of her only treasure.
	If her monkey die,
	She will sit and cry,
	Fie fie fie fie fie!

BEN JONSON from Epicoene 1609

	Still to be neat, still to be drest,
	As, you were going to a feast;
	Still to be pou’dred, still perfum’d:
	Lady, it is to be presum’d,
	Though arts hid causes are not found,
	All is not sweet, all is not sound.

	Give me a looke, give me a face,
	That makes simplicitie a grace;
	Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
	Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
	Then all th’adulteries of art.
	They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

(1616)

EDMUND SPENSER from Two Cantos of Mutabilitie

	[Nature’s Reply to Mutabilitie]
	Then since within this wide great Universe
	Nothing doth firme and permanent appeare,
	But all things tost and turned by transverse:
	What then should let, but I aloft should reare
	My Trophee, and from all, the triumph beare?
	Now judge then (ô thou greatest goddesse trew!)
	According as thy selfe doest see and heare,
	And unto me addoom that is my dew;
	That is the rule of all, all being rul’d by you.

	So having ended, silence long ensewed,
	Ne Nature to or fro spake for a space,
	But with firme eyes affixt, the ground still viewed.
	Meanewhile, all creatures, looking in her face,
	Expecting th’end of this so doubtfull case,
	Did hang in long suspence what would ensew,
	To whether side should fall the soveraigne place:
	At length, she looking up with chearefull view,
	The silence brake, and gave her doome in speeches few.

	I well consider all that ye have sayd,
	And find that all things stedfastnes doe hate
	And changed be: yet being rightly wayd
	They are not changed from their first estate;
	But by their change their being doe dilate:
	And turning to themselves at length againe,
	Doe worke their owne perfection so by fate:
	Then over them Change doth not rule and raigne;
	But they raigne over change, and doe their states maintaine.

	Cease therefore daughter further to aspire,
	And thee content thus to be rul’d by me:
	For thy decay thou seekst by thy desire;
	But time shall come that all shall changed bee,
	And from thenceforth, none no more change shall see.
	So was the Titaness put downe and whist,
	And Jove confirm’d in his imperiall see.
	Then was that whole assembly quite dismist,
	And Natur’s selfe did vanish, whither no man wist.

	The VIII Canto, unperfite
	When I bethinke me on that speech whyleare,
	Of Mutability, and well it way:
	Me seemes, that though she all unworthy were
	Of the Heav’ns Rule; yet very sooth to say,
	In all things else she beares the greatest sway.
	Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle,
	And love of things so vaine to cast away;
	Whose flowring pride, so fading and so fickle,
	Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle.

	Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd,
	Of that same time when no more Change shall be,
	But stedfast rest of all things firmely stayd
	Upon the pillours of Eternity,
	That is contrayr to Mutabilitie:
	For, all that moveth, doth in Change delight:
	But thence-forth all shall rest eternally
	With Him that is the God of Sabbaoth hight:
	O that great Sabbaoth God, graunt me that Sabaoths sight.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from Sonnets

	18
	Shall I compare thee to a Summers day?
	Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
	Rough windes do shake the darling buds of Maie,
	And Sommers lease hath all too short a date:
	Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
	And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,
	And every faire from faire some-time declines,
	By chance, or natures changing course untrim’d:

	But thy eternall Sommer shall not fade,
	Nor loose possession of that faire thou ow’st,
	Nor shall death brag thou wandr’st in his shade,
	When in eternall lines to time thou grow’st,
	So long as men can breath or eyes can see,
	So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

	55
	Not marble, nor the guilded monuments
	Of Princes shall out-live this powrefull rime,
	But you shall shine more bright in these contents
	Then unswept stone, besmeer’d with sluttish time.
	When wastefull warre shall Statues over-turne,
	And broiles roote out the worke of masonry,
	Nor Mars his sword, nor warres quick fire shall burne
	The living record of your memory.
	Gainst death, and all oblivious enmity
	Shall you pace forth, your praise shall stil finde roome,
	Even in the eyes of all posterity
	That weare this world out to the ending doome.
	So til the judgement that your selfe arise,
	You live in this, and dwell in lovers eies.

	60
	Like as the waves make towards the pibled shore,
	So do our minuites hasten to their end,
	Each changing place with that which goes before,
	In sequent toile all forwards do contend.
	Nativity once in the maine of light,
	Crawles to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
	Crooked eclipses gainst his glory fight,
	And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
	Time doth transfixe the florish set on youth,
	And delves the paralels in beauties brow,
	Feedes on the rarities of natures truth,
	And nothing stands but for his sieth to mow.
	And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
	Praising thy worth, dispight his cruell hand.

	66
	Tyr’d with all these for restfull death I cry,
	As to behold desert a begger borne,
	And needie Nothing trimd in jollitie,
	And purest faith unhappily forsworne,
	And gilded honor shamefully misplast,
	And maiden vertue rudely strumpeted,
	And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d,
	And strength by limping sway disabled,
	And arte made tung-tide by authoritie,
	And Folly (Doctor-like) controuling skill,
	And simple-Truth miscalde Simplicitie,
	And captive-good attending Captaine ill.
	Tyr’d with all these, from these would I be gone,
	Save that to dye, I leave my love alone.

	73
	That time of yeeare thou maist in me behold,
	When yellow leaves, or none, or few doe hange
	Upon those boughes which shake against the could,
	Bare ruin’d quiers, where late the sweet birds sang.
	In me thou seest the twi-light of such day,
	As after Sun-set fadeth in the West,
	Which by and by blacke night doth take away,
	Deaths second selfe that seals up all in rest.
	In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
	That on the ashes of his youth doth lye,
	As the death bed, whereon it must expire,
	Consum’d with that which it was nurrisht by.
	This thou percev’st, which makes thy love more strong,
	To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

	94
	They that have powre to hurt, and will doe none,
	That doe not do the thing, they most do showe,
	Who moving others, are themselves as stone,
	Unmooved, could, and to temptation slow:
	They rightly do inherrit heavens graces,
	And husband natures ritches from expence,
	They are the Lords and owners of their faces,
	Others, but stewards of their excellence:
	The sommers flowre is to the sommer sweet,
	Though to it selfe, it onely live and die,
	But if that flowre with base infection meete,
	The basest weed out-braves his dignity:
	For sweetest things turne sowrest by their deedes,
	Lillies that fester, smell far worse then weeds.

	107
	Not mine owne feares, nor the prophetick soule,
	Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
	Can yet the lease of my true love controule,
	Supposde as forfeit to a confin’d doome.
	The mortall Moone hath her eclipse indur’de,
	And the sad Augurs mock their owne presage,
	Incertenties now crowne them-selves assur’de,
	And peace proclaimes Olives of endlesse age.
	Now with the drops of this most balmie time,
	My love lookes fresh, and death to me subscribes,
	Since spight of him Ile live in this poore rime,
	While he insults ore dull and speachlesse tribes.
	And thou in this shalt finde thy monument,
	When tyrants crests and tombs of brasse are spent.

	116
	Let me not to the marriage of true mindes
	Admit impediments, love is not love
	Which alters when it alteration findes,
	Or bends with the remover to remove.
	O no, it is an ever fixed marke
	That lookes on tempests and is never shaken;
	It is the star to every wandring barke,
	Whose worths unknowne, although his higth be taken.
	Lov’s not Times foole, though rosie lips and cheeks
	Within his bending sickles compasse come,
	Love alters not with his breefe houres and weekes,
	But beares it out even to the edge of doome:
	If this be error and upon me proved,
	I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

	124
	Yf my deare love were but the childe of state,
	It might for fortunes basterd be unfathered,
	As subject to times love, or to times hate,
	Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gatherd.
	No it was buylded far from accident,
	It suffers not in smilinge pomp, nor falls
	Under the blow of thralled discontent,
	Whereto th’inviting time our fashion calls:
	It feares not policy that Heriticke,
	Which workes on leases of short numbred howers,
	But all alone stands hugely pollitick,
	That it nor growes with heat, nor drownes with showres.
	To this I witnes call the foles of time,
	Which die for goodnes, who have liv’d for crime.

	129
	Th’expence of Spirit in a waste of shame
	Is lust in action, and till action, lust
	Is perjurd, murdrous, blouddy full of blame,
	Savage, extreame, rude, cruell, not to trust,
	Injoyd no sooner but dispised straight,
	Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
	Past reason hated as a swollowed bayt,
	On purpose layd to make the taker mad.
	Made In pursut and in possession so,
	Had, having, and in quest to have, extreame,
	A blisse in proofe and prov’d a very wo,
	Before a joy proposd behind a dreame,
	All this the world well knowes yet none knowes well,
	To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

	138
	When my love sweares that she is made of truth,
	I do beleeve her though I know she lyes,
	That she might thinke me some untuterd youth,
	Unlearned in the worlds false subtilties.
	Thus vainely thinking that she thinkes me young,
	Although she knowes my dayes are past the best,
	Simply I credit her false speaking tongue,
	On both sides thus is simple truth supprest:
	But wherefore sayes she not she is unjust?
	And wherefore say not I that I am old?
	O loves best habit is in seeming trust,
	And age in love, loves not to have yeares told.
	Therefore I lye with her, and she with me,
	And in our faults by lyes we flattered be.

(1599)

	144
	Two loves I have of comfort and dispaire,
	Which like two spirits do sugiest me still,
	The better angell is a man right faire:
	The worser spirit a woman collour’d il.
	To win me soone to hell my femall evill,
	Tempteth my better angel from my side,
	And would corrupt my saint to be a divel:
	Wooing his purity with her fowle pride.
	And whether that my angel be turn’d finde,
	Suspect I may, yet not directly tell,
	But being both from me both to each friend,
	I gesse one angel in an others hel.
	Yet this shal I nere know but live in doubt,
	Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

(1599)