MAN'S MEDLEY 29 XXXV MAN'S MEDLEY HARK how the birds do sing, And woods do ring: All creatures have their joy, and man hath his. Man's joy and pleasure Rather hereafter than in present is. To this life things of sense Make their pretence ; In th' other angels have a right by birth: And makes them one With th' one hand touching heaven, with t' other earth. In soul he mounts and flies, In flesh he dies; He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round, But trimm'd with curious lace, And should take place After1 the trimming, not the stuff and ground. Not that he may not here Taste of the cheer: But as birds drink and straight lift up their head, So must he sip and think Of better drink He may attain to after he is dead. 1 According to. But as his joys are double, So is his trouble; He hath two winters, other things but one: And he of all things fears two deaths alone. Yet ev❜n the greatest griefs May be reliefs, Could he but take them right and in their ways. Happy is he whose heart Hath found the art To turn his double pains to double praise. XXXVI Geo. Herbert. VIRTUE SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright! Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, THE MESSAGE Only a sweet and virtuous soul, But though the whole world turn to coal, Geo. Herbert. XXXVII THE MESSAGE YE little birds that sit and sing Go pretty birds about her bower; Go tell her through your chirping bills, To her is only known my love Which from the world is hidden. Go pretty birds and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: 31 And she that hath the sweetest voice, O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: T. Heywood. XXXVIII TO THE WESTERN WIND SWEET Western wind, whose luck it is, To give Perenna's lips a kiss, And fan her wanton hair: Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Herrick. PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON 333 XXXIX PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON In the merry month of May, Much ado there was, God wot! She said, never man was true; He said, he had loved her long When they will not Love abuse, N. Breton. с |