Some Longer Elizabethan Poems :: ODES. [1606.] ODE I.

ODES. [1606.] ODE I.

A. H. Bullen

To Himself, and the Harp.

Nd why not I, as he

That's greatest, if as free,

(In sundry strains that strive,

Since there so many be),

Th' old Lyric kind revive?

I will, yea; and I may:

Who shall oppose my way?

For what is he alone,

That of himself can say,

He's Heir of Helicon.

Apollo and the Nine

Forbid no man their shrine,

That cometh with hands pure;

Else, they be so divine,

They will not him endure.

For they be such coy things;

That they care not for Kings,

And dare let them know it:

Nor may he touch their Springs

That is not born a Poet.

PyrenÆus, King of Phocis attempting to ravish the Muses.

The Phocean it did prove,

Whom when foul lust did move

Those Maids, unchaste to make;

Fell as with them he strove,

His neck and justly brake.

That instrument ne'er heard,

Struck by the skilful Bard,

It strongly to awake;

But it th' infernals scared,

And made Olympus quake.

I Samuel xvi.

As those prophetic strings,

Whose sounds with fiery wings

Drave fiends from their abode;

Touched by the best of Kings,

That sang the holy Ode.

Orpheus the Thracian Poet. Caput, Hebre, lyramque excipis, &c. Ovid. Metam. xi.

So his, which women slew:

And it int' Hebrus threw;

Such sounds yet forth it sent,

The banks to weep that drew,

As down the stream it went.

Mercury, inventor of the harp, as Horace. Ode 10, Lib. I., curvÆque lyrÆ parentem.

That by the tortoise shell,

To Maya's son it fell,

The most thereof not doubt:

But sure some Power did dwell

In him who found it out.

The wildest of the field,

And air, with rivers t' yield,

Thebes feigned to have been raised by music.

Which moved; that sturdy glebes,

And mossy oaks could wield,

To raise the piles of Thebes.

And diversely though strung,

So anciently We sung

To it; that now scarce known,

If first it did belong

To Greece, or if our own.

The ancient British Priests, so called of their abode in woods.

The Druids embrued

With gore, on altars rude

With sacrifices crowned,

In hollow woods bedewed,

Adored the trembling sound.

Pindar, Prince of the Greek Lyrics, of whom Horace, PINDARUM quisquis studet, &c. Ode 2, Lib. IV.

Though we be all to seek

Of Pindar, that great Greek,

To finger it aright;

The soul with power to strike:

His hand retained such might.

Horace, first of the Romans in that kind.

Or him that Rome did grace,

Whose Airs we all embrace:

That scarcely found his peer;

Nor giveth Phoebus place,

For strokes divinely clear.

The Irish Harp.

The Irish I admire,

And still cleave to that Lyre

As our Music's mother:

And think, till I expire,

Apollo's such another.

As Britons that so long

Have held this antique Song;

And let all our carpers

Forbear their fame to wrong:

Th'are right skilful harpers.

Soowthern, an English Lyric. [His PANDORA was published in 1584.]

Soowthern, I long thee spare;

Yet wish thee well to fare,

Who me pleasedst greatly:

As first, therefore more rare,

Handling thy harp neatly.

To those that with despite

Shall term these Numbers slight;

Tell them, Their judgment's blind!

Much erring from the right.

It is a noble kind.

Nor is 't the Verse doth make,

That giveth, or doth take:

'Tis possible to climb,

An old English Rhymer.

To kindle, or to slake;

Although in Skelton's rhyme.

ODE 2.

To the New Year.

Ich statue double faced!

With marble temples graced,

To raise thy godhead higher;

In flames where, altars shining,

Before thy Priests divining,

Do od'rous fumes expire.

Great Janus, I thy pleasure,

With all the Thespian treasure,

Do seriously pursue:

To th' passed year returning,

As though the Old adjourning;

Yet bringing in the New.

Thy ancient Vigils yearly,

I have observÈd clearly;

Thy Feasts yet smoking be!

Since all thy store abroad is;

Give something to my goddess,

As hath been used by thee!

Give her th' Eoan Brightness!

Winged with that subtle lightness

That doth transpierce the air;

The Roses of the Morning!

The rising heaven adorning,

To mesh with flames of hair;

Those ceaseless Sounds, above all,

Made by those orbs that move all;

And ever swelling there:

Wrapped up in Numbers flowing,

Them actually bestowing

For jewels at her ear.

O rapture great and holy,

Do thou transport me wholly

So well her form to vary!

That I aloft may bear her

Where as I will insphere her

In regions high and starry.

And in my choice Composures,

The soft and easy Closures

So amorously shall meet,

That every lively Ceasure

Shall tread a perfect measure,

Set on so equal feet.

That spray to fame so fert'le,

The lover-crowning myrtle,

In wreaths of mixÈd boughs;

Within whose shades are dwelling

Those beauties most excelling,

Enthroned upon her brows.

Those parallels so even,

Drawn on the face of heaven,

That curious Art supposes;

Direct those gems, whose clearness

Far off amaze by nearness,

Each globe such fire encloses.

Her bosom full of blisses,

By Nature made for kisses;

So pure and wondrous clear:

Where as a thousand Graces

Behold their lovely faces,

As they are bathing there.

O thou self-little Blindness!

The kindness of unkindness,

Yet one of those Divine:

Thy Brands to me were lever,

Thy Fascia, and thy Quiver,

And thou this Quill of mine.

This heart so freshly bleeding,

Upon its own self feeding;

Whose wounds still dropping be:

O Love, thyself confounding,

Her coldness so abounding,

And yet such heat in me.

Yet, if I be inspirÈd,

I'll leave thee so admirÈd

To all that shall succeed;

That were they more than many,

'Mongst all there is not any

That Time so oft shall read.

Nor adamant ingravÈd,

That hath been choicely savÈd,

Idea's name outwears:

So large a dower as this is;

The greatest often misses,

The diadem that bears.

ODE 3.

[To Cupid.]

Aidens, why spare ye?

Or whether not dare ye

Correct the blind Shooter?'

"Because wanton Venus,

So oft that doth pain us,

Is her son's tutor.

"Now in the Spring,

He proveth his wing;

The field is his Bower:

And as the small bee,

About flyeth he,

From flower to flower.

"And wantonly roves

Abroad in the groves,

And in the air hovers;

Which when it him deweth,

His feathers he meweth

In sighs of true Lovers.

"And since doomed by Fate

(That well knew his hate)

That he should be blind;

For very despite,

Our eyes be his White:

So wayward his kind!

"If his shafts losing

(Ill his mark choosing)

Or his bow broken;

The moan Venus maketh,

And care that she taketh,

Cannot be spoken.

"To Vulcan commending

Her love; and straight sending

Her doves and her sparrows,

With kisses, unto him:

And all but to woo him

To make her son arrows.

"Telling what he hath done;

Saith she,'Right mine own son!'

In her arms she him closes.

Sweets on him fans,

Laid in down of her swans;

His sheets, leaves of roses.

"And feeds him with kisses;

Which oft when he misses,

He ever is froward.

The mother's o'erjoying

Makes, by much coying,

The child so untoward."

Yet in a fine net,

That a spider set,

The Maidens had caught him.

Had she not been near him,

And chancÈd to hear him;

More good they had taught him!

To my worthy friend Master John Savage of the Inner Temple.

ODE 4.

Pon this sinful earth,

If Man can happy be,

And higher than his birth,

Friend, take him thus of me:

Whom promise not deceives,

That he the breach should rue;

Nor constant reason leaves

Opinion to pursue.

To raise his mean estate,

That soothes no Wanton's sin:

Doth that preferment hate,

That virtue doth not win

Nor bravery doth admire:

Nor doth more love profess

To that he doth desire,

Than that he doth possess.

Loose humour nor to please,

That neither spares nor spends;

But by discretion weighs

What is to needful ends.

To him deserving not,

Not yielding: nor doth hold

What is not his: doing what

He ought, not what he could.

Whom the base tyrants' will

So much could never awe

As him, for good or ill,

From honesty to draw.

Whose constancy doth rise

'Bove undeservÈd spite;

Whose valuers to despise

That most doth him delight.

That early leave doth take

Of th' World, though to his pain,

For Virtue's only sake;

And not till need constrain.

No man can be so free,

Though in imperial seat;

Nor eminent: as he

That deemeth nothing great.

ODE 5.

[An Amouret Anacreontic.]

Ost good! most fair!

Or thing as rare!

To call you's lost;

For all the cost

Words can bestow

So poorly show

Upon your praise,

That all the ways

Sense hath, come short.

Whereby Report

Falls them under:

That when Wonder

More hath seized;

Yet not pleased

That it, in kind,

Nothing can find,

You to express.

Nevertheless

As by globes small

This mighty ALL

Is shewed, though far

From life; each star

A World being:

So we seeing

You, like as that,

Only trust what

Art doth us teach.

And when I reach

At Moral Things,

And that my strings

Gravely should strike;

Straight some mislike

Blotteth mine Ode;

As, with the Load,

The Steel we touch:

Forced ne'er so much;

Yet still removes

To that it loves,

Till there it stays.

So to your praise

I turn ever:

And though never

From you moving;

Happy so loving.

ODE 6.

[Love's Conquest.]

Er 't granted me to choose,

How I would end my days,

Since I this life must lose;

It should be in your praise:

For there are no Bays

Can be set above You.

S'impossibly I love You;

And for You sit so high

(Whence none may remove You)

In my clear Poesy,

That I oft deny

You so ample merit.

The freedom of my spirit

Maintaining, still, my cause;

Your sex not to inherit,

Urging the Salic Laws:

But your virtue draws

From me every due.

Thus still You me pursue,

That nowhere I can dwell;

By fear made just to You,

Who naturally rebel;

Of You that excel

That should I still endite.

Yet will You want some rite.

That lost in your high praise,

I wander to and fro;

As seeing sundry ways:

Yet which the right not know

To get out of this Maze.

ODE 7.

[An Ode written in the Peak.]

His while we are abroad,

Shall we not touch our Lyre?

Shall we not sing an Ode?

Shall that holy fire,

In us that strongly glowed,

In this cold air expire?

Long since the Summer laid

Her lusty bravery down;

The Autumn half is weighed,

And Boreas 'gins to frown:

Since now I did behold

Great Brute's first builded town.

Though in the utmost Peak,

A while we do remain;

Amongst the mountains bleak,

Exposed to sleet and rain:

No sport our hours shall break,

To exercise our vein.

What though bright Phoebus' beams

Refresh the southern ground;

And though the princely Thames

With beauteous Nymphs abound;

And by old Camber's streams

Be many wonders found:

Yet many rivers clear

Here glide in silver swathes;

And what of all most dear,

Buxton's delicious baths,

Strong ale, and noble cheer,

T'assuage breem Winter's scathes.

Those grim and horrid caves,

Whose looks affright the day;

Wherein nice Nature saves

What she would not bewray:

Our better leisure craves,

And doth invite our Lay.

In places far, or near,

Or famous, or obscure;

Where wholesome is the air,

Or where the most impure;

All times, and everywhere,

The Muse is still in ure.

ODE 8.

Ing we the Rose!

Than which no flower there grows

Is sweeter;

And aptly her compare

With what in that is rare:

A parallel none meeter.

Or made posies,

Of this that encloses

Such blisses:

That naturally flusheth,

As she blusheth

When she is robbed of kisses.

Or if strewed,

When with the morning dewed;

Or stilling;

Or how to sense exposed:

All which in her enclosed,

Each place with sweetness filling.

That most renowned

By Nature richly crowned

With yellow;

Of that delicious lair:

And as pure her hair,

Unto the same the fellow.

Fearing of harm;

Nature that flower doth arm

From danger:

The touch gives her offence,

But with reverence

Unto herself, a stranger.

The red, or white,

Or mixed, the sense delight,

Beholding,

In her complexion:

All which perfection,

Such harmony infolding,

That divided,

Ere it was decided

Which most pure,

Began the grievous War

Of York and Lancaster,

That did many years endure.

Conflicts as great

As were in all that heat,

I sustain:

By her, as many hearts

As men on either parts,

That with her eyes hath slain.

The Primrose flower,

The first of Flora's bower

Is placed:

So is She first, as best:

Though excellent the rest;

All gracing, by none graced.

ODE 9.

[A Skeltoniad.]

He Muse should be sprightly;

Yet not handling lightly

Things grave: as much loath

Things that be slight, to cloathe

Curiously. To retain

The Comeliness in mean

Is true Knowledge and Wit.

Nor me forced rage doth fit,

That I thereto should lack

Tobacco, or need Sack;

Which to the colder brain

Is the true Hippocrene.

Nor did I ever care

For Great Fools, nor them spare.

Virtue, though neglected,

Is not so dejected

As vilely to descend

To low baseness, their end:

Neither each rhyming slave

Deserves the name to have

Of Poet. So, the rabble

Of Fools, for the table,

That have their jests by heart,

As an Actor his part,

Might assume them chairs

Amongst the Muses' heirs.

Parnassus is not clomb

By every such Mome:

Up whose steep side who swerves,

It behoves t'have strong nerves.

My resolution such

How well, and not how much,

To write. Thus do I fare

Like some few good, that care

(The evil sort among)

How well to live, and not how long.

ODE 10.

[His Defence against the idle Critic.]

He Ryme nor mars, nor makes;

Nor addeth it, nor takes,

From that which we propose:

Things imaginary

Do so strangely vary

That quickly we them lose.

And what's quickly begot,

As soon again is not;

This do I truly know.

Yea, and what's born with pain;

That, Sense doth long'st retain,

Gone with a greater flow.

Yet this Critic so stern,

(But whom, none must discern

Nor perfectly have seeing)

Strangely lays about him,

As nothing without him

Were worthy of being,

That I myself betray

To that most public way;

Where the World's old bawd

Custom, that doth humour,

And by idle rumour,

Her dotages applaud.

That whilst she still prefers

Those that be wholly hers,

Madness and Ignorance;

I creep behind the Time,

From spertling with their crime;

And glad too with my chance.

O wretched World the while,

When the evil most vile

Beareth the fairest face;

And inconstant lightness,

With a scornful slightness,

The best things doth disgrace!

Whilst this strange knowing beast,

Man; of himself the least,

His envy declaring,

Makes Virtue to descend,

Her title to defend

Against him; much preparing.

Yet these me not delude,

Nor from my place extrude,

By their resolvÈd hate;

Their vileness that do know:

Which to myself I show,

To keep above my fate.

ODE 11.

To the Virginian Voyage.

Ou brave heroic minds,

Worthy your country's name,

That Honour still pursue;

Go and subdue!

Whilst loitering hinds

Lurk here at home with shame.

Britans, you stay too long;

Quickly aboard bestow you!

And with a merry gale

Swell your stretched sail!

With vows as strong

As the winds that blow you.

Your course securely steer,

West-and-by-South forth keep!

Rocks, Lee-shores, nor Shoals,

When Eolus scowls,

You need not fear!

So absolute the deep.

And cheerfully at sea,

Success you still entice,

To get the pearl and gold;

And ours to hold,

Virginia,

Earth's only Paradise.

Where Nature hath in store

Fowl, venison, and fish:

And the fruitful soil;

Without your toil,

Three harvests more,

All greater than your wish.

And the ambitious vine

Crowns, with his purple mass,

The cedar reaching high

To kiss the sky.

The cypress, pine,

And useful sassafras.

To whose, the Golden Age

Still Nature's laws doth give:

No other cares that tend,

But them to defend

From winter's age,

That long there doth not live.

When as the luscious smell

Of that delicious land,

Above the seas that flows,

The clear wind throws,

Your hearts to swell,

Approaching the dear strand.

In kenning of the shore

(Thanks to God first given!)

O you, the happiest men,

Be frolic then!

Let cannons roar!

Frightening the wide heaven.

And in regions far,

Such heroes bring ye forth

As those from whom We came!

And plant our name

Under that Star

Not known unto our North!

And as there plenty grows

Of laurel everywhere,

Apollo's sacred tree;

You it may see

A Poet's brows

To crown, that may sing there.

Thy Voyages attend,

Industrious Hakluyt!

Whose reading shall inflame

Men to seek fame;

And much commend

To after Times thy wit.

ODE 12.

To the Cambro-Britans and their Harp, his Ballad of Agincourt.

[Besides this Ballad: Michael Drayton published, in 1627, a much longer Poem upon this celebrated Battle.]

Air stood the wind for France,

When we our sails advance;

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry.

But putting to the main;

At Caux, the mouth of Seine,

With all his martial train

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort

Furnished in warlike sort,

Marcheth towards Agincourt

In happy hour;

Skirmishing, day by day,

With those that stopped his way,

Where the French General lay

With all his Power.

Which, in his height of pride,

King Henry to deride;

His ransom to provide,

To the King sending.

Which he neglects the while,

As from a nation vile;

Yet, with an angry smile,

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,

Quoth our brave Henry then:

"Though they to one be ten

Be not amazÈd!

Yet have we well begun:

Battles so bravely won

Have ever to the sun

By Fame been raised!"

"And for myself," quoth he,

"This my full rest shall be:

England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me!

Victor I will remain,

Or on this earth lie slain:

Never shall She sustain

Loss to redeem me!

"Poitiers and Cressy tell,

When most their pride did swell,

Under our swords they fell.

No less our skill is,

Than when our Grandsire great,

Claiming the regal seat,

By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lillies."

The Duke of York so dread

The eager Vanward led;

With the Main, Henry sped

Amongst his henchmen:

Exeter had the Rear,

A braver man not there!

O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone;

Armour on armour shone;

Drum now to drum did groan:

To hear, was wonder.

That, with cries they make,

The very earth did shake;

Trumpet, to trumpet spake;

Thunder, to thunder.

Well it thine age became,

O noble Erpingham!

Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces:

When, from a meadow by,

Like a storm suddenly,

The English Archery

Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong;

Arrows a cloth-yard long,

That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather.

None from his fellow starts;

But, playing manly parts,

And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw;

And forth their bilbowes [swords] drew

And on the French they flew:

Not one was tardy.

Arms were from the shoulders sent

Scalps to the teeth were rent,

Down the French peasants went:

Our men were hardy.

This while our noble King,

His broad sword brandishing,

Down the French host did ding

As to o'erwhelm it.

And many a deep wound lent;

His arms with blood besprent,

And many a cruel dent

BruisÈd his helmet.

Gloucester that Duke so good,

Next of the royal blood,

For famous England stood

With his brave brother.

Clarence, in steel so bright,

Though but a Maiden Knight;

Yet in that furious fight,

Scarce such another!

Warwick, in blood did wade;

Oxford, the foe invade,

And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up.

Suffolk his axe did ply;

Beaumont and Willoughby

Bare them right doughtily:

Ferrers, and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's Day,

Fought was this noble Fray;

Which Fame did not delay

To England to carry.

O when shall English men

With such acts fill a pen?

Or England breed again

Such a King Harry?

FINIS.

PREFACE TO THE ADDITIONAL ODES OF 1619.

To the worthy Knight, and my noble friend,
Sir Henry Goodere, a Gentleman of
His Majesty's Privy Chamber.

WITH OTHER LYRIC POESIES.

To his Valentine.

Use, bid the Morn awake!

Sad Winter now declines,

Each bird doth choose a Make;

This day's Saint Valentine's.

For that good Bishop's sake

Get up, and let us see

What Beauty it shall be

That Fortune us assigns!

But, lo, in happy hour,

The place wherein she lies;

In yonder climbing Tower,

Gilt by the glitt'ring Rise.

O, Jove, that in a shower

(As once that Thunderer did,

When he in drops lay hid)

That I could her surprise!

Her canopy I'll draw,

With spangled plumes bedight:

No mortal ever saw

So ravishing a sight;

That it the Gods might awe,

And pow'rfully transpierce

The globy Universe,

Outshooting every light.

My lips I'll softly lay

Upon her heavenly cheek,

Dyed like the dawning day,

As polished ivory sleek;

And in her ear I'll say:

"O thou bright Morning Star!

'Tis I, that come so far,

My Valentine to seek.

"Each little bird, this tide,

Doth choose her lovÈd pheere;

Which constantly abide

In wedlock all the year,

As Nature is their guide;

So may we Two be true

This year, nor change for new;

As turtles coupled were.

"The sparrow, swan, the dove,

Though Venus' birds they be;

Yet are they not for love,

So absolute as we!

For reason us doth move;

But they by billing woo.

Then try what we can do!

To whom each sense is free.

"Which we have more than they,

By livelier organs swayed;

Our Appetite each way

More by our Sense obeyed.

Our Passions to display,

This season us doth fit;

Then let us follow it,

As Nature us doth lead!

"One kiss in two let's breathe!

Confounded with the touch,

But half words let us speak!

Our lips employed so much,

Until we both grow weak:

With sweetness of thy breath,

O smother me to death!

Long let our joys be such!

"Let's laugh at them that choose

Their Valentines by lot;

To wear their names that use,

Whom idly they have got."

Saint Valentine, befriend!

We thus this Morn may spend:

Else, Muse, awake her not!

The Heart.

F thus we needs must go;

What shall our one Heart do,

This One made of our Two?

Madam, two Hearts we brake;

And from them both did take

The best, one Heart to make.

Half this is of your Heart,

Mine in the other part;

Joined by an equal Art.

Were it cemented, or sewn;

By shreds or pieces known,

We might each find our own.

But 'tis dissolved and fixed;

And with such cunning mixed,

No diff'rence that betwixt.

But how shall we agree,

By whom it kept shall be:

Whether by you or me?

It cannot two breasts fill;

One must be heart-less still,

Until the other will.

It came to me to-day:

When I willed it to say,

With Whether would it stay?

It told me, "In your breast,

Where it might hope to rest:

For if it were my guest,

"For certainty, it knew

That I would still anew

Be sending it to you!"

Never, I think, had two

Such work, so much, to do:

A Unity to woo!

Yours was so cold and chaste:

Whilst mine with zeal did waste;

Like Fire with Water placed.

How did my Heart intreat!

How pant! How did it beat,

Till it could give yours heat!

Till to that temper brought,

Through our perfection wrought,

That blessing either's thought.

In such a height it lies

From this base World's dull eyes;

That Heaven it not envies.

All that this Earth can show.

Our Heart shall not once know!

For it's too vile and low.

The Sacrifice to Apollo.

Riests of Apollo, sacred be the room

For this learned meeting! Let no barbarous groom,

How brave soe'er he be,

Attempt to enter!

But of the Muses free,

None here may venture!

This for the Delphian Prophets is prepared:

The profane Vulgar are from hence debarred!

And since the Feast so happily begins;

Call up those fair Nine, with their violins!

They are begot by Jove.

Then let us place them

Where no clown in may shove,

That may disgrace them:

But let them near to young Apollo sit;

So shall his foot-pace overflow with wit.

Where be the Graces? Where be those fair Three?

In any hand, they may not absent be!

They to the Gods are dear:

And they can humbly

Teach us, ourselves to bear,

And do things comely.

They, and the Muses, rise both from one stem:

They grace the Muses; and the Muses, them.

Bring forth your flagons, filled with sparkling wine

(Whereon swollen Bacchus, crownÈd with a vine,

Is graven); and fill out!

It well bestowing

To every man about,

In goblets flowing!

Let not a man drink, but in draughts profound!

To our god Phoebus, let the Health go round!

Let your Jests fly at large; yet therewithal

See they be Salt, but yet not mixed with Gall!

Not tending to disgrace:

But fairly given,

Becoming well the place,

Modest and even,

That they, with tickling pleasure, may provoke

Laughter in him on whom the Jest is broke.

Or if the deeds of Heroes ye rehearse:

Let them be sung in so well-ordered Verse,

That each word have its weight,

Yet run with pleasure!

Holding one stately height

In so brave measure

That they may make the stiffest storm seem weak;

And damp Jove's thunder, when it loud'st doth speak.

And if ye list to exercise your vein,

Or in the Sock, or in the Buskined strain;

Let Art and Nature go

One with the other!

Yet so, that Art may show

Nature her mother:

The thick-brained audience lively to awake,

Till with shrill claps the Theatre do shake.

Sing Hymns to Bacchus then, with hands upreared!

Offer to Jove, who most is to be feared!

From him the Muse we have.

From him proceedeth

More than we dare to crave.

'Tis he that feedeth

Them, whom the World would starve. Then let the lyre

Sound! whilst his altars endless flames expire.

To his Rival.

Er loved I most,

By thee that's lost,

Though she were won with leisure;

She was my gain:

But to my pain,

Thou spoilest me of my treasure

The ship full fraught

With gold, far sought,

Though ne'er so wisely helmÈd,

May suffer wrack

In sailing back,

By tempest overwhelmÈd.

But She, good Sir!

Did not prefer

You, for that I was ranging:

But for that She

Found faith in me,

And She loved to be changing.

Therefore boast not

Your happy lot;

Be silent now you have her!

The time I knew

She slighted you,

When I was in her favour.

None stands so fast

But may be cast

By Fortune, and disgracÈd:

Once did I wear

Her garter there,

Where you her glove have placÈd.

I had the vow

That thou hast now,

And glances to discover

Her love to me;

And She to thee,

Reads but old lessons over.

She hath no smile

That can beguile;

But, as my thought, I know it:

Yea to a hair,

Both when, and where,

And how, she will bestow it.

What now is thine

Was only mine,

And first to me was given;

Thou laugh'st at me!

I laugh at thee!

And thus we two are even.

But I'll not mourn,

But stay my turn;

The wind may come about, Sir!

And once again

May bring me in;

And help to bear you out, Sir!

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