8 Her rosial colour comes and goes With such a comely grace, More ruddier, too, than doth the rose, 9 At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding, as astray. 10 The modest mirth that she doth use, 11 O Lord, it is a world to see And deck in her such honesty, 12 Truly she doth as far exceed 13 How might I do to get a graff For all the rest are plain but chaff 14 This gift alone I shall her give, When death doth what he can: Within the mouth of man. THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER. 1 I see there is no sort Of things that live in grief, 4 The coney hath its cave, The little bird his nest, From heat and cold themselves to save At all times as they list. 5 The owl, with feeble sight, 6 But woe to me, alas! In sun nor yet in shade, 7 But day by day still bears The burden on my back, With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears, O Night, O jealous Night, repugnant to my pleasure, Sweet Night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till to-morrow, Whose joy, in lack so long, a hell of torment breeds, Sweet Night, sweet gentle Night, do not prolong my sorrow, Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs. Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining, Dame Cynthia, couch a while; hold in thy horns for shining, And glad not low'ring Night with thy too glorious rays; But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining, That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise. And when my will is done, then, Cynthia, shine, good lady, eyes FROM THE SAME. 1 The gentle season of the year Hath made my blooming branch appear, 2 The meads are mantled all with green, But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack, 3 And as you see the scarlet rose In his sweet prime his buds disclose, 4 My heart, that wonted was of yore, As doth the bird that's taken new, And mourns when all her neighbours sings. 5 When every man is bent to sport, As doth the doleful turtle-dove, 6 There to myself I do recount 7 And in this mood, charged with despair, life, I may have truce with this strange strife, And bring my soul to better rest. THE SOUL'S ERRAND. 1 Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand, Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant; 2 Go tell the Court it glows, And shines like rotten wood; |