Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame,

And stall'd the deer that thou shouldst strike, Let reason rule things worthy blame,

As well as partial fancy like:

Take counsel of some wiser head,
Neither too young, nor yet unwed.
And when thou com'st thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filèd talk,
Lest she some subtle practice smell;
(A cripple soon can find a halt:)

But plainly say thou lov'st her well,
And set thy person forth to sell.
What though her frowning brows be bent,
Her cloudy looks will clear ere night;
And then too late she will repent,
That thus dissembled her delight;
And twice desire, ere it be day,
That which with scorn she put away.
What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay,
Her feeble force will yield at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say,-
"Had women been so strong as men,
In faith, you had not had it then."

And to her will frame all thy ways;
Spare not to spend,-and chiefly there.
Where thy desert may merit praise,
By ringing in thy lady's ear:

The strongest castle, tower, and town
The golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assurèd trust,
And in thy suit be humble, true;
Unless thy lady prove unjust,
Seek never thou to choose anew:

When time shall serve, be thou not slack
To proffer, though she put thee back.
The wiles and guiles that women work,
Dissembled with an outward show,
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know.
Have you not heard it said full oft,

A woman's nay doth stand for naught? Think women love to match with men, And not to live so like a saint: Here is no heaven; they holy then Begin, when age doth them attaint. Were kisses all the joys in bed, One woman would another wed. But, soft! enough,-too much I fear; For if my mistress hear my song, She will not stick to warm my ear, To teach my tongue to be so long: Yet will she blush, here be it said, To hear her secrets so bewray'd.

XV.

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
"Fie, fie, fie," now would she cry;
"Tereu, Tereu!" by and by;
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain!
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee
King Pandion, he is dead;

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow-birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
Whilst as fickle Fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil'd.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy, like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find:

ΙΟΟΙ

Every man will be thy friend,

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call,
And with such-like flattering,
"Pity but he were a king.'
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,

They have him at commandèment:

But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown;
They that fawn'd on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need:
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep;
Thus, of every grief in heart,
He with thee does bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe,

LET the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou, shrieking harbinger,
Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,

To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king;
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack 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 anthem doth commence :-
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov'd, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none: Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance, and no space was seen 'Twixt the turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine, That the turtle saw his right Flaming in the phoenix' sight; Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appall'd,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was call'd.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together,
To themselves yet either-neither,
Simple were so well compounded⚫
That it cried, How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason nene,
If what parts can so remain.
Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.

THRENOS.

Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclos'd in cinders lie.

Death is now the phoenix' nest;
And the turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity:-
'Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but 'tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair

That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.