The seven sleepers ere they left
the light and colour of the earth
the seven sleepers they did cry
(banishing their final fears):

" Beauty will not ever fade.
To our cavern we retire
doom'd to sleep ten thousand years.
Roll the rock across the gap.

Then forget us; we are quiet:
stiff and cold our bodies lie;
Earth itself shall stir ere we
visit Earth's mortality.

Beauty when we wake will be
a solitude on land and sea."

Hit's a-gittin' mighty late w'en de Guinny-hins squall,
En you better dance now, ef you gwineter dance a tall,
Fer by dis time ter-morrer night you can't hardly crawl,
Kaze you'll hatter take de hoe ag'in en likewise de maul —
Don't you hear dat bay colt a kickin' in his stall?
Stop yo' humpin' up yo' sho'lders —
Dat'll never do!
Hop light, ladies,
Oh, Miss Loo!
Hit takes a heap er scrougin'
Fer ter git you thoo —
Hop light, ladies,
Oh, Miss Loo!

Sonnett

O love how my sweete Mistres in bewty all excellethe
when eyther hir bright eyes with homage I contemplate
or els her golden tresse where gayned glory dwelleth
or those fayre lylly cheekes mixt with so cleare incarnate
But love howe Shee agayne in cruelty excedeth
when eithar hyr refuse my humble suits disdayneth
or when to see hir frownes my harte for sorrow bledeth
or when throughe hir distruste my faith no credit gaineth
This with the one hyr lovly lookes I meane so woundinge
my harte is ravishte quite with hyghe concayte of pleasure

Sonnet

With his owne hande dyd love her feature frame
Whom I doo serve and honor mooste in mynde
And with such arte he dyd compose the same
As well is seene She is off heavenlye kinde
He chose the portracte off this Peece devyne
From out the skies and from none other place
Whereatt in scorne nature dyd then repyne
To see how much ytt did her worckes disgrace
Thus havinge choyselye donne his moost and beste

Sonnett

Nott the disdaynes of her prowde youthly mynde
which laughes at love, and scornes to tread his trace
Nor my desyres that saile againste the winde
nor yett my death, depainted in her face
Nor yett my hope ready to suffer wracke
with broken masts devoyde off sayle or sturne
Nor all the cares that do surcharge my Backe
nor that straunge flame wherwith my vaines do burn
Nor all my teares lett fall to quench that fire

Oh, de worril is roun' en de worril is wide —
Lord! 'member deze chillun in de mornin' —
Hit's a mighty long ways up de mountain side,
En dey ain't no place fer dem sinners fer ter hide,
En dey ain't no place whar sin kin abide,
W'en de Lord shill come in de mornin'!
Look up en look aroun',
Fling yo' burden on de groun',
Hit's a-gittin' mighty close on ter mornin'!
Smoove away sin's frown —
Retch up en git de crown,
W'at de Lord will fetch in de mornin'!

De han' er ridem'shun, hit's hilt out ter you —

Oh, whar shill we go w'en de great day comes,
Wid de blowin' er de trumpits en de bangin' er de drums?
How many po' sinners'll be kotched out late
En fin' no latch ter de golden gate?
No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer!
De sun musn't set on yo' sorrer,
Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier —
Oh, Lord! fetch de mo'ners up higher!

W'en de nashuns er de earf is a stan'in' all aroun',
Who's a gwineter be choosen fer ter w'ar de glory-crown?
Who's a gwine fer ter stan' stiff-kneed en bol',
En answer to der name at de callin' er de roll?

My werye ghooste charged with to highe desyre
why doest thow not unto the Heaven make haste
My pynynge breste whom fancye setts on fyre
Why doste thow not, with speed to Syndars waste
My heavy Eyes that to to much have seene
Why doo yow not become to flowinge springes
My faultringe tounge that to to slow hath bene
Frame such a note as doth the Swanne that singes
Oh sweete yff gaynde, But els oh bitter Care
Oh doubtfull joy, But oh to certaine paine
Oh desteny that makest me this to dare
Why wilt thow yeald my enterpryses vaine

I wake: I am alive: there is a bell
sounding with the dream's retreating surf
O catch the lacey hem dissolv'd in light
that creeps along the healing tendrils of a mind
still drugg'd with sleep. Why must my day
kill my dreams? Days of hate. But yes a bell
beats really on this air, a mad bell.
The peasants stir behind that screen.
Listen: they mutter now: they sing
in their old crackt voices, intone
a litany. There are no guns
only these voices of thanksgiving. Can it be?
Yes yes yes: it is peace, peace!

That to revive which wronge of tyme might weare
Some that have quaylede the pride of haughty harts
Unto their ffame such Trophes proude doo reare
As aunswere may the height of such desarts
And some agayne doubtinge such statelye frames
Throughe fyre or force might lyckwise bee defaste
In spite of wracke recorded have their names
And worthie deeds in Bookes that alwaies laste
Others lykewyse we see Even at this Daye
So to sett fourth theyr honor wonn in fyelde
In temples huge theyr gayned spoiles displaye