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Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store;10 Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more:

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.




Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both hand and foot go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,

Whether it be new or old.

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.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I am nothing a-cold;

I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side, etc.

I love no roast but a nutbrown toast,
And a crab1 laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I not desire.

No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if it would,

I am so wrapt and throughly lapt
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side, etc.

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 trowl2 to me the bowl Even as a maltworm3 should,






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My mind to me a kingdom is,

Such present joys therein I find That it excels all other bliss

That earth affords or grows by kind: Though much I want which most would have,

Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,

No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to feed a loving eye;

To none of these I yield as thrall:
For why? My mind doth serve for all.

I see how plenty [surfeits] oft,

And hasty climbers soon do fall;

I see that those which are aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all; They get with toil, they keep with fear: Such cares my mind could never bear. Content to live, this is my stay;

I seek no more than may suffice; I press to bear no haughty sway;




Look, what I lack my mind supplies: Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring. Some have too much, yet still do crave;25 I little have, and seek no more.

They are but poor, though much they have,

And I am rich with little store: They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.

1 emptied.


I laugh not at another's loss;

I grudge not at another's pain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain:
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;
Their treasure is their only trust;

A cloaked craft their store of skill:
But all the pleasure that I find
Is to maintain a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease;

My conscience clear my chief defence; I neither seek by bribes to please,

Nor by deceit to breed offence: Thus do I live; thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I!






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What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O'tis the ravished nightingale.
"Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear? 5
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note;
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing,
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring;
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring!

1 wagered.


The fairest shepherd on our


A love for any lady.

Fair and fair, and twice so fair,5

As fair as any may be;

Thy love is fair for thee alone,
And for no other lady.

EN. My love is fair, my love is gay,
As fresh as bin2 the flowers in

And of my love my roundelay,

My merry, merry roundelay,
Concludes with Cupid's curse,-


"They that do change old love for


Pray gods they change for worse!" 15 AMBO SIMUL.3 They that do change, etc. EN. Fair and fair, etc.

PAR. Fair and fair, etc.

Thy love is fair, etc.

EN. My love can pipe, my love can


My love can1 many a pretty thing,
And of his lovely praises ring

My merry, merry roundelays,
Amen to Cupid's curse,-

"They that do change," etc. PAR. They that do change, etc. AMBO. Fair and fair, etc.

ROBERT GREENE (1560?-1592)




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THOMAS LODGE (15587-1625)


Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he,
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,
The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing;

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.
Whist,2 wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence.

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,

I'll make you fast it for your sin,





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