THOMAS, LORD VAUX.

1511-1562.

OF A CONTENTED SPIRIT.

When all is done and said, in the end this shall you find :
He most of all doth bathe in bliss that hath a quiet mind;
And, clear from worldly cares, to dream can be content
The sweetest time in all this life in thinking to be spent.

The body subject is to fickle Fortune's power,
And to a million of mishaps is casual every hour;
And death in time doth change it to a clod of clay :
Whenas the mind, which is divine, runs never to decay.

Companion none is like unto the mind alone, [or none : For many have been harm'd by speech,-through thinking few, Fear oftentimes restraineth words, but makes not thoughts to

cease;

And he speaks best that hath the skill when for to hold his peace.

Our wealth leaves us at death, our kinsmen at the grave;
But virtues of the mind unto the heavens with us we have:
Wherefore, for Virtue's sake, I can be well content
The sweetest time of all my life to deem in thinking spent.

NICOLAS GRIMOALD.

1519?-1563?

A TRUE LOVE.

What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see,
What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true Love is to me;
As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed,

As morning bright with scarlet sky doth pass the evening's weed,
As mellow pears above the crabs esteemed be,

So doth my Love surmount them all whom yet I hap to see.

The oak shall olives bear, the lamb the lion fray,

The owl shall match the nightingale in tuning of her lay,

Or I my Love let slip out of mine entire heart :

So deep reposed in my breast is She for her desert.

For many blessed gifts, O happy, happy lạnd!

Where Mars and Pallas strive to make their glory most to stand; Yet, land! more is thy bliss that in this cruel age

A Venus imp thou hast brought forth, so steadfast and so sage.
Among the Muses nine a tenth if Jove would make,

And to the Graces three a fourth, Her would Apollo take.
Let some for honour hunt, or hoard the massy gold:
With Her so I may live and die, my weal can not be told.

JOHN HEYWOOD.

1505 ?-1570-80.

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY.
Give place, you Ladies! and begone;
Boast not yourselves at all!
For here at hand approacheth One
Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;
I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy :

It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.

I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.

She may be very well compared
Unto the Phoenix kind,

Whose like was never seen or heard
That any man can find.

In life she is Diana chaste,

In truth Penelopè;

In word and eke in deed steadfast:
What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her rosiall colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace,

More readier too than doth the rose,

Within her lively face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,

Ne at no wanton play,

Nor gazing in an open street,

Nor gadding as a stray.

The modest mirth that she doth use

Is mix'd with shamefacedness;

All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.

O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair
And deck in her such honesty
Whom Nature made so fair.

Truly She doth as far exceed
Our women now-a-days
As doth the gillyflower a weed,
And more a thousand ways.

How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?

For all the rest are plain but chaff

Which seem good corn to be.

This gift alone I shall her give :
When Death doth what he can,
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.

JOHN HARINGTON.
1520?-1565?

THE HEART OF STONE.

Whence comes my love? O heart! disclose !
'Twas from cheeks that shamed the rose,
From lips that spoil the rubies' praise,
From eyes that mock the diamonds' blaze.
Whence comes my woe? As freely own,
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind,
The eyes do tempt to love's desire
And seem to say-'Tis Cupid's fire:
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,

Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus my love so kind bespeak

Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek; Yet not a heart to ease my pain?

O Venus! take thy gifts again :

Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own!

GEORGE GASCOIGNE.

1535-7?-1577.

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF A LOVER.

At Beauty's Bar as I did stand,

When False Suspect accusèd me,

George! quoth the Judge,-hold up thy hand! Thou art arraign'd of flattery :

Tell therefore how thou wilt be tried!
Whose judgment here wilt thou abide ?
My Lord! quoth I,-this Lady here,
Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt if any were:

Wherefore her doom shall please me best.
Let her be judge and juror both
To try me, guiltless by mine oath!

Quoth Beauty-No! it fitteth not
A Prince herself to judge the cause :
Will is our Justice, well you wot,
Appointed to discuss our laws.
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so!
Then Craft, the crier, call'd a quest,

Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;
A pack of pickthanks were the rest,

Which came false witness for to bear : The jury such, the judge unjust, Sentence was said I should be truss'd.

Jealous, the gaoler, bound me fast

To hear the verdict of the bill

George! quoth the Judge,-now thou art cast,
Thou must go hence to heavy hill
And there be hang'd all by the head:
God rest thy soul when thou art dead!

Down fell I then upon my knee,

All flat before Dame Beauty's face,
And cried-Good Lady! pardon me
Which here appeal unto your grace :
You know, if I appear untrue,
It was in too much praising you.

And though this judge do make such haste
To shed with shame my guiltless blood,