CLEMENT ROBINSON.

Some go here, and some go there,
Where gazes be not geason;
And I go gaping everywhere,

But still come out of season.

Yet fain, etc.

I walk the town and thread the street,

In every corner seeking :

The pretty thing I cannot meet,
That's for my lady's liking.

Fain would, etc.

The mercers pull me, going by,

The silk-wives say, "What lack ye?"

"The thing you have not," then say I, "Ye foolish fools, go pack ye !"

But fain, etc.

It is not all the silk in Cheap,

Nor all the golden treasure,

Nor twenty bushels on a heap
Can do my lady pleasure.

But fain, etc.

O Lady what a luck is this,

That my good willing misseth

To find what pretty thing it is

That my good lady wisheth.

Thus fain would I have had this pretty thing

To give unto my lady :

I said no harm, nor I meant no harm,

But as pretty a thing as may be.

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CHIDICK TYCHBORNE, in Verses of Praise and Joy . . . written upon her Majesty's Preservation, 1586.

LAMENT.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,

My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my good is but vain hope of gain:

My life is fled and yet I saw no sun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

The spring is past and yet it hath not sprung,

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green,

My youth is gone and yet I am but young,

I saw the world and yet I was not seen:

My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and found it in my womb,
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,

And now I die, and now I am but made:
The glass is full and now my glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

NICHOLAS BRETON, from Cosens'
MS., after 1586.

OLDEN LOVE-MAKING.

IN time of yore when shepherds dwelt
Upon the mountain rocks,

And simple people never felt

The pain of lover's mocks;

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But little birds would carry tales
'Twixt Susan and her sweeting,
And all the dainty nightingales

Did sing at lovers' meeting:

Then might you see what looks did pass
Where shepherds did assemble,

And where the life of true love was

When hearts could not dissemble.

Then yea and nay was thought an oath
That was not to be doubted,

And when it came to faith and troth

We were not to be flouted.

Then did they talk of curds and cream,

Of butter, cheese and milk,

There was no speech of sunny beam

Nor of the golden silk. Then for a gift a row of pins,

A purse, a pair of knives,

Was all the way that love begins;

THOMAS LODGE, Rosalind, Euphues' Golden Legacy, 1590; written 1587.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

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, 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 mine eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin:
Alas, what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?

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