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For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill.
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Thus with his wife he spends the year, as blithe
As doth the king at every tide or sithe,

And blither too;

For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,
When shepherds laugh and love upon the land.

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

1590.

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SWEET ARE THE THOUGHTS THAT SAVOUR OF

CONTENT

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown.

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;

The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, 5
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbours quiet rest;
The cottage that affords no pride nor care;
The mean that 'grees with country music best;

The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare:
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss.
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

ΙΟ

PHILOMELA'S ODE

THAT SHE SUNG IN HER ARBOUR

Sitting by a river side,

Where a silent stream did glide,

Muse I did of many things

That the mind in quiet brings.

1591.

I gan think how some men deem
Gold their god; and some esteem
Honour is the chief content
That to man in life is lent;
And some others do contend
Quiet none like to a friend;
Others hold there is no wealth
Compared to a perfect health;
Some man's mind in quiet stands
When he is lord of many lands.
But I did sigh, and said all this
Was but a shade of perfect bliss;
And in my thoughts I did approve
Naught so sweet as is true love.
Love 'twixt lovers passeth these,
When mouth kisses and heart 'grees,
With folded arms and lips meeting,
Each soul another sweetly greeting-
For by the breath the soul fleeteth,
And soul with soul in kissing meeteth.
If love be so sweet a thing,

That such happy bliss doth bring,

Happy is love's sugared thrall;

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But unhappy, maidens all

Who esteem your virgins' blisses

Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses:

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Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king:
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;
Cold doth not sting; the pretty birds do sing,

"Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!"

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The palm and may make country houses gay;
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day;
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:

"Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!"

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet;
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
"Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!"
Spring, the sweet Spring!

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1593.

1600.

ADIEU, FAREWELL, EARTH'S BLISS

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;

This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly:

I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth;
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;

The plague full swift goes by:
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flow'r,

Which wrinkles will devour;

Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye:
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave;
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with Fate;
Earth still holds ope her gate;

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Till they did for good and all.
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth
Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,

Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not love abuse,
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phyllida, with garlands gay,
Was made the lady of the May.

A SWEET LULLABY

Come, little babe, come, silly soul,

Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole,

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And to thyself unhappy chief:
Sing lullaby and lap it warm,

Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little think'st and less dost know
The cause of this thy mother's moan;
Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all alone:

Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail,
And knowest not yet what thou dost ail?

Come, little wretch, ah silly heart,
Mine only joy, what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart,
That may the Destinies implore:

'T was I, I say, against my will;
I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face!

Would God himself he might thee see!
No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,
I know right well, for thee and me:

But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.

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