MY

LORD ROCHFORD.

Y lute, awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,

And end that I have now begun:
And when this song is sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection:
So that I am past remedy,
Whereby my lute and I have done.
Proud of the spoil which thou hast gọt
Of simple Hearts through Love's shot,
By whom (unkind!) thou hast them won
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on earnest pain:
Think not alone under the Sun
Unquit to cause thy Lover's plaine,
Although my lute and I have done.
May chance thee lie withered and old
In winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told,
Care then who list, for I have done.
And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent,
To cause thy Lover's sigh and swoon;
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want as I have done.

Now cease, my lute: this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun;
Now is this Song both sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.

SINCE

SIR THOMAS WYAT.

love will needs that I must love,

Of very force I must agree:
And since no chance may it remove,
In wealth and in adversity,
I shall always myself apply,
To serve and suffer patiently.

Though for good-will I find but hate,
And Cruelty my life to waste,
And though that still a wretched state,
Should pine my days unto the last,
Yet I profess it willingly,
To serve and suffer patiently.

There is no grief, no smart, no woe,
That yet I feel, or after shall,
That from this mind may make me go;
And, whatsoever me befal,
I do profess it willingly,
To serve and suffer patiently.

YOUR looks so often cast,

Your eyes so friendly roll'd,

Your sight fixed so fast,
Always one to behold;
Tho' hide it fain ye would,
It plainly doth declare,
Who hath your heart in hold,
And where good-will ye bear.

Fain would ye find a cloak
Your burning fire to hide,
Yet both the flame and smoke
Breaks out on every side.
Ye cannot love so guide
That it no issue win;
Abroad needs must it glide
That burns so hot within.

ANONYMOUS.

A Man may live thrice Nestor's life,

Thrice wander out Ulysses' race,

Yet never find Ulysses' wife;

Such change hath chanced in this case! Less age will serve than Paris had,

Small pain (if none be small enow) To find good store of Helen's trade; Such sap the root doth yield the bough! For one good wife, Ulysses slew

A worthy knot of gentle blood: For one ill wife, Greece overthrew The town of Troy. Sith bad and good Bring mischief, Lord let be thy will To keep me free from either ill!

I See there is no sort

Of things that live in grief,
Which at some time may not resort,
Whereas they find relief.

The chaced deer hath soil,
To cool him in his heat;
The ass, after his weary toil,
In stable is up set.

The coney hath its cave,

The little bird its nest,

From heat and cold themselves to save,
At all times as they list.
The owl, with feeble sight,

Lies lurking in the leaves;
The sparrow, in the frosty night,
May shroud her in the eaves.
But, woe to me, alas!

In sun, nor yet in shade, I cannot find a resting-place My burthen to unlade.

FROM GAMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE.

DRINKING SONG,

I Cannot eat but little meat,

My stomach is not good;

But sure, I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Tho' I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a cold,
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I nought desire.
No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold,

I am so wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd,
Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side, &c.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she troul to me the bowl,
Even as a malkworm should,
And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old."
Back and side, &c.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do;

They shall not miss to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to.

And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, Or have them lustily troul'd,

God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old.

Back and side, &c.