English

The cheerefull byrde that skips from tree to tree,
By skilfull choyse doth rooust and rest at night:
Although by wing and will he may go free,
Yet there he pearkes, where most he takes delight.
As Thrush in thorne, and golden Finch in Fearne,
Great byrds in groues, the smale in bushie hedge:
The Larke alowe, in loftie tree the Hearne,
And some in Fenne, doe shrowde themselues in sedge.
So some men bost in Bayes, whose branch they beare,
Some Hawthorne holde, as chiefe of their delight:
Some wofull wights, the wrethed Willows weare,

In fayth doth frozen I ANVS double face,
Such fauour finde, to match with pleasant Maye:
May Horie Hiems now sweete blisse imbrace,
Where fertyle Iune by flatte repulse had nay.
No surely no, though iealous heades misdeeme,
A false vntroth to me the same doth seeme.

For Frost with Fyre may neuer long agree,
And Maye by course ought mayntaine V ENVS right:
When shyuering I ANVS doth denie we see,
The pleasing sporte that May would most delight.
Then iealous slaunder shut thy chaps for shame,

Lust long is faynde a God of loue to bee,
Whose peeuishe power some deeme is dangerous.
A cunning Archer that could neuer see,
Set forth he is, with shaftes right perillous.
A wanton winged boy forsooth he is,
And V ENVS sonne, whom she doth clip and kisse.

Down from the Heauens he shoots the flaming dartes,
That Fancie quickly burnes with quenchlesse fyre:
Bereauing Reason quite in all her partes,
Preferring wyll with doting fond desyre.
Is this a God? no, no, a Diuell sure,

To syfte my fate in forrein soyle,
a time though I depart:
Yet distaunce none, ne tyme, nor toyle
shall pluck from thee my hart.
But as I earst vnfaynedly,
haue vowde me wholy thyne:
So will I stande assuredly,
howe ere the worlde enclyne.

If mine thy little care,
if thine my restlesse state,
If thine the brunts in brest I beare,
of mine to loue or hate.
Then trie thou shouldst to true,
that falsshood naught did frame;
Though now my smarts thou list not rue,
but makes my griefe thy game.
But out alas I die,
this change is nothing so:
For I in languishe still doe lye,
and fawne on thee my foe.
Who smiles to see my smarte,
and laughes when I doe weepe:
Regarding naught my faythfull harte,
yet from me dost it keepe.

At stryfe to whome I might,
commit my secret teares:
My heart the Mountaynes sight,
and hollow E CCHO feares.

I doubt the Dryades ,
amids the Forrest chase,
And thinking on the Seas,
I dread the Marmayds grace.

What shall I trust the Skyes?
then me the windes bewray:
Poore soule whom I OVE denyes,
eche caytife doth betray.

Ha heauy hart, thy meede,
O tell, tell out thy minde:
Ponder his fylthie deede,
that left his shame behinde.

And lyke a Cowarde fledde,

If wayghtie burthens may be light,
Or fayre deniall det requite:
If Justice can be termed error,
Or drosse for good and perfite treasor.
If Maye may be without delyte,
Or Snowe of other hewe than whyte,
If Cunning can be without skill,
Or women without headstrong will,
If Pardon where there is no synne,
Or Losse where euery man doth winne,
If Paradise in Hell you see,
Or sylent whereas women bee.
Then shall not Loue be termed hate,
Nor lowe degree the happiest state,
But all this must prooue contrarie,

'Tis better to the house of woe,
Than to the house of mirth to go;
The lessons that its scenes impart
Bring home instruction to the heart;
'Tis there that feelingly we learn
Our nature's frailty to discern,
And in the ills of others see
What we ourselves must quickly be.
Folly's array'd in smiles, but tears
Are oft the garb that wisdom wears;
Though sad the countenance, the mind
By virtuous sorrow is refin'd.
Destructive is unhallowed mirth,
It chains our nobler pow'rs to earth,

O fortune false how double are thy deedes,
Thy painted Flowres are nought in proose but weedes.
Who are brought downe, by thy most frowarde frownes,
Still subiect liue, and trouble them redownes.
To slipper happes annexed are their dayes,
To Lyons force, their bodyes are but prayes.
What so they winne by meritte or deserte,
Is from them rest, by power that doth subuerte.
Now welthy men doe tell the wisest tales,
And muck is made an equall weyghing schales.
No reason yet, but right should be of force,

Exalted far above all height,
Dwells the Supreme, array'd in light,
Unchangeable his nature's frame,
He ever was and is the same;
His being through all time extends,
It ne'er begun, and never ends:
No force to his is equal found,
His mighty pow'r no limits bound:
The heav'ns and earth his pow'r first made,
And, at his word, again they fade.
He, Nature's animating soul,
Pervades, directs, supports the whole:
In him alone all live and move,
The creatures of his pow'r and love.
Of each perfection, he possest,