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And some do love the common sort,
Look not too high,
But, high or low,
But, sirs, I use to tell no tales;
every hedge I find not thorns ; Nor every beast doth carry horns.
I say not so,
That were too broad :
Who useth still the truth to tell
Thousands were good;
Most are well bent; I must say so, lest I be shent.
The Herdman's Happy Life. *
(From "Sonets and Pastorales" included in “ Psalmes,
“Sonets, and Songs of Sadnes and Pietie, made into “ musicke of five partes.” By W. Byrd, 1588.]
What pleasure have great princes
More dainty to their choice
In quiet life rejoice,
All day their flocks each tendeth,
At night they take their rest;
His ship into the east,
For lawyers and their pleading,
They 'steem it not a straw;
Is of itself a law :
* This title is from England's Helicon, in which the poem is said to be taken "out of M. Bird's Set Songs." 1" fate not fearing." Eng. Hel. VOL. II.
Where conscience judgeth plainly,
O happy who thus liveth,
Not caring much for gold;
To keep him from the cold.
(At an annual Triumph, held in honour of Queen Elizabeth,
Nov. 17, 1590, in the Tilt-yard, Westminster, the following verses were “pronounced and sung by M. Hales, her “ Majesty's servant, a gentleman in that art excellent, and “ for his voice both commendable and admirable." Segar's
“ Honor, Military and Civill," 1602. fol.c. 54. p. 198.] My golden locks time hath to silver turn’d,
(Oh time too swift, and swiftness never ceasing !) My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth hath
spurn'd, But spurn'd in vain : youth waneth by in
creasing. Beauty, and strength, and youth, flowers fading been, Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.
My helmet now shall make an hive for bees,
And lovers' songs shall turn to holy psalms :
A man at arms must now sit on his knees,
And feed on prayers, that are old age's alms. And so from court to cottage I depart; My saint is sure of mine unspotted heart.
And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
I'll teach my swains this carol for a song: “ Blest be the hearts that think my sovereign well, “ Curs'd be the souls that think to do her
wrong.” Goddess ! vouchsafe this aged man his right, To be your beadsman now, that was your knight.
Wodenfride's Song in praise of Amargana.
(From England's Helicon.]
The paths where Amargana treads
The groves put on their rich array,
And sweet perfum'd with eglantine,
The silent river stays his course,
The woods at her fair sight rejoices,
Great Pan, our god, for her dear sake,
And every swain his chance doth prove,
All happiness let heaven her lend,