Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet 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 lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain:
No worldly wave my mind can toss,
I brook that is another's bane:

I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

I wish but what I have at will,
I wander not to seek for more,
I like the plain, I climb no hill,

In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain, To get what must be lost again.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,
My conscience clear my chief defence;
I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence;
Thus do I live, thus will I die,
Would all did so as well as I.

WILLIAM BYRD (1540-1628).

THE LYE.

GOE, Soule, the bodie's guest, Upon a thanklesse arrant; Feare not to touche the bestThe truth shall be thy warrant! Goe, since I needs must dye, And give the world the lye.

Goe tell the court it glowes

And shines like rotten wood; Goe tell the church it showes What's good, and doth no good; If church and court reply, Then give them both the lye.

Tell potentates they live

Acting by others actionsNot loved unlesse they give, Not strong but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lye.

Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell them that brave it most
They beg for more by spending,

Who in their greatest cost
Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lye.

Tell zeale it lacks devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lye.

Tell age it daily wasteth;

Tell honour how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth; Tell favour how she falters; And as they then reply, Give each of them the lye.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of nicenesse;
Tell wisdome she entangles
Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
And if they do reply,
Straight give them both the lye.

Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldnesse;
Tell law it is contention;
And as they yield reply,
So give them still the lye.

Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindnesse:
Tell justice of delay;

And if they dare reply,
Then give them all the lye.

Tell arts they have no soundnesse,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schooles they want profoundnesse,
And stand too much on seeming;
If arts and schooles reply,
Give arts and schooles the lye.

Tell faith it 's fled the citie;

Tell how the country erreth;
Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;
Tell, vertue least preferreth;

And if they doe reply,
Spare not to give the lye.

So, when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing-
Although to give the lye
Deserves no less than stabbing-
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soule can kill.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552-1618).

SONNET.

COME sleep, O sleep! The certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe;

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low!

With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease

Of those fierce darts despair doth at me

throw.

Oh make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland and a weary head;

And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554–1586).

MAN'S MORTALITY.

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossoms on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, and man,-he dies!

Like to the grass that 's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that 's here to-day,
Or like the pearlèd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan near death,-man's life is done!

Like to a bubble in the brook,
Or in a glass much like a look,
Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand,
Or like the writing on the sand,
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of a stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The bubble's out, the look 's forgot,
The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot,
The thought is past, the dream is gone,
The water glides,-man's life is done!

Like to a blaze of fond delight,
Or like a morning clear and bright,
Or like a frost, or like a shower,
Or like the pride of Babel's tower,
Or like the hour that guides the time,
Or like to Beauty in her prime;
Even such is man, whose glory lends
That life a blaze or two, and ends.

743

LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG.

The morn's o'ercast, joy turned to pain,
The frost is thawed, dried up the rain,
The tower falls, the hour is run,
The beauty lost,-man's life is done!

Like to an arrow from the bow,
Or like swift course of water-flow,

Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender web,
Or like a race, or like a goal,
Or like the dealing of a dole;
Even such is man, whose brittle state
Is always subject unto Fate.

The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent,
The time 's no time, the web soon rent,
The race soon run, the goal soon won,
The dole soon dealt,-man's life is done!

Like to the lightning from the sky,
Or like a post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in a short song,
Or like a journey three days long,

Or like the snow when summer's come,
Or like the pear, or like the plum;
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.
The lightning's past, the post must go,
The song is short, the journey's so,
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,
The snow dissolves,-and so must all!
SIMON WASTEL (1560–1630).

LOVE me little, love me long!
Is the burden of my song:
Love that is too hot and strong

Burneth soon to waste.

Still I would not have thee cold-
Not too backward, nor too bold;
Love that lasteth till 't is old

Fadeth not in haste.
Love me little, love me long!
Is the burden of my song.

If thou lovest me too much, 'T will not prove as true a touch; Love me little more than such,—

For I fear the end.

I'm with little well content,
And a little from thee sent
Is enough, with true intent
To be steadfast, friend.

Say thou lovest me, while thou live
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive
While that life endures;
Nay, and after death, in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth,
As now when in my May of youth:
This my love assures.

Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through life persever;
Give me that with true endeavor,-
I will it restore.

A suit of durance let it be,
For all weathers,-that for me,-
For the land or for the sea:
Lasting evermore.

Winter's cold or summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests on it beat;
It can never know defeat,

Never can rebel;

Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love, I tell thee plain,
Thou must give, or woo in vain :
So to thee-farewell!

ANONYMOUS (1569).

THE WILL.

BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,
Great Love, some legacies: I here bequeathe
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;
If they be blind, then, love, I give them thee;
My tongue to fame; to ambassadors mine ears;
To women, or the sea, my tears.
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore,
By making me serve her who had twenty more,
That I should give to none but such as had too
much before.

My constancy I to the planets give;

My truth to them who at the court do live; Mine ingenuity and openness

To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness;

My silence to any who abroad have been;
My money to a Capuchin.

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me
To love there where no love received can be,
Only to give to such as have no good capacity.

My faith I give to Roman Catholics;
All my good works unto the schismatics

Of Amsterdam; my best civility

And courtship to an university;

My modesty I give to soldiers bare;

My patience let gamesters share.

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me

Love her that holds my love disparity,

Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those

Which were my friends; mine industry to foes;
To schoolmen I bequeathe my doubtfulness;
My sickness to physicians, or excess;

To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ!
And to my company my wit.

Thou, Love, by making me adore

Her who begot this love in me before,

Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I

Yet these upon mankind attend,
For secret aid, or public light;
And from the world's extremest end
Repair unto us every night.

Oh! had that stamp been undefaced
Which first on us Thy hand had set,
How highly should we have been graced,
Since we are so much honored yet!
Good God, for what but for the sake
Of Thy beloved and only Son,
Who did on Him our nature take,
Were these exceeding favors done?

As we by Him have honored been,
Let us to Him due honors give;
Let His uprightness hide our sin,

And let us worth from Him receive.
Yea, so let us by grace improve
What Thou by Nature doth bestow,
That to Thy dwelling-place above
We may be raised from below.
George Wither (1588–1667).

SONG.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is passed, the fading rose;
For, in your beauty's orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is passed;
For in your sweet, dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light That downward fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
THOMAS CAREW (1589-1639).

EXEQUY.

ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint,
Instead of dirges, this complaint;
And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse
Receive a strew of weeping verse

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st

see

Quite melted into tears for thee.

Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate

On thee, on thee; thou art the book,
The library whereon I look,

Thou almost blind; for thee (loved clay)
I languish out, not live, the day,
Using no other exercise

But what I practise with mine eyes,
By which wet glasses I find out
How lazily Time creeps about

To one that mourns: this, only this,
My exercise and business is:
So I compute the weary hours
With sighs dissolved into showers.

Nor wonder if my time go thus
Backward and most preposterous;
Thou hast benighted me; thy set
This eve of blackness did beget,
Who wast my day (though overcast
Before thou hast thy noontide passed),
And I remember must in tears

Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
As day tells hours: by thy clear sun
My love and fortune first did run:

But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my hemisphere,
Since both thy light and motion
Like a fled star is fallen and gone,
And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish
The earth now interposed is,

Which such a strange eclipse doth make
As ne'er was read in almanac.

I could allow thee for a time
To darken me and my sad clime:
Were it a month, or year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then.
And all that space my mirth adjourn,
So thou wouldst promise to return,
And, putting off thy ashy shroud,
At length disperse this sable cloud!

But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate
These empty hopes: never shall I
Be so much blessed as to descry
A glimpse of thee, till that day come
Which shall the earth to cinders doom,
And a fierce fever must calcine
The body of this world like thine,
(My little world!) that fit of fire
Once off, our bodies shall aspire

To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise,
And view ourselves with clearer eyes
In that calm region where no night
Can hide us from each other's sight.

Meantime thou hast her, Earth: much good
May my harm do thee! Since it stood
With Heaven's will I might not call
Her longer mine, I give thee all
My short-lived right and interest
In her whom living I loved best;
With a most free and bounteous grief
I give thee what I could not keep.
Be kind to her, and, prithee, look
Thou write into thy doomsday book
Each parcel of this Rarity

Which in thy casket shrined doth lie.
See that thou make thy reckoning straight,
And yield her back again by weight:

745

For thou must audit on thy trust
Each grain and atom of this trust,
As thou wilt answer Him that lent,
Not gave thee, my dear monument.
So, close the ground, and 'bout her shade
Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed
Never to be disquieted!

My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake:
Till age or grief, or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there: I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay;
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step toward thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than when Sleep breathed his drowsy gale.
Thus from the sun my bottom steers,
And my day's compass downward bears;
Nor labor I to stem the tide

Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield; Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory.

In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe'er my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by thee.