A honey-shower rains from her lips,

Sweet lights shine in her face ;
She hath the blush of virgin mind,

The mind of viper's race.

She makes thee seek, yet fear to find ;

To find but not enjoy ;
In many frowns some gliding smiles

She yields, to more annoy.

She woos thee to come near her fire,

Yet doth she draw it from thee;
Far off she makes thy heart to fry,

And yet to freeze within thee.

She letteth fall some luring baits

For fools to gather up ;
Too sweet, too sour, to every taste

She tempereth her cup.

Soft souls she binds in tender twist,

Small flies in spinner's web,
She sets afloat some luring streams,

But makes them soon to ebb.

Her watry eyes have burning force ;

Her floods and flames conspire ;
Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are,

And sighs do blow her fire.

May never was the month of love,

For May is full of flowers,
But rather April, wet by kind,

For love is full of showers.

Like tyrant, cruel wounds she gives,

Like surgeon, salve she lends; But salve and sore have equal force,

For death is both their ends. P.5 B

17

With soothing words enthralled souls

She chains in servile bands ; Her eye in silence hath a speech

Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours ;

Short hap immortal harms;
Her loving looks are murd'ring darts,

Her songs bewitching charms.

Like Winter rose and Summer ice

Her joys are still untimely ; Before her Hope, behind Remorse :

Fair first, in fine unseemly.

Moods, passions, fancies, jealous fits,

Attend upon her train ;
She yieldeth rest without repose,

And heaven in hellish pain.

Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit,

And slippery Hope her stairs ; Unbashful boldness bids her guests,

And every vice repairs.

Her diet is of such delights

As please till they be past ;
But then the poison kills the heart

That did entice the taste.

Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath,

Remorse rings her awake; Death calls her up, Shame drives her out,

Despairs her upshot make.

Plow not the seas, sow not the sands,

Leave off your idle pain ;
Seek other mistress for your minds,
Love's service is in vain.

Content and Rich

I DWELL in Grace's court,

Enriched with Virtue's rights ;
Faith guides my wit ; Love leads my will,

Hope all my mind delights.

In lowly vales I mount

To Pleasure's highest pitch ;
My silly shroud true honours brings,

My poor estate is rich.

My conscience is my crown,

Contented thoughts my rest; My heart is happy in itself,

My bliss is in my breast.

Enough I reckon wealth ;

A mean the surest lot,
That lies too high for base contempt,

Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few,

All easy to fulfil,
I make the limits of my poure

The bounds unto my will.

I have no hopes but one,

Which is of heavenly reign : Effects attained, or not desired,

All lower hopes refrain.

I feel no care of coin,

Well-doing is my wealth:
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.

I clip high-climbing thoughts,

The wings of swelling pride :
Their fall is worst, that from the height

Of greatest honours slide.

No change of Fortune's calms

Can cast my comforts down;
When Fortune smiles, I smile to think

How quickly she will frown;

And when in froward mood

She proves an angry foe,
Small gain I found to let her come,

Less loss to let her go.

A Vale of Tears

A VALE there is, enwrapped with dismal shades, Which, thick with mournful pines, shrouds from the

sun ; Where hanging cliffs yield short and dumpish glades,

And snowy food with broken streams doth run:

Where eye-roam is from rocks to cloudy sky,

From thence to dales with stony ruins strowed, Then to the crushed water's frothy fry,

Which tumbleth from the tops where snow is thawed.

Where ears of other sound can have no choice,

But various blustering of the stubborn wind In trees, in caves, in straits with divers noise,

Which now doth hiss, now howl, now roar by kind : Where waters wrestle with encountering stones

That break their streams and turn them into foam ; The hollow clouds, full fraught with thundering groans, With hideous thumps discharge their pregnant

womb.

And in the horror of this fearful quire

Consists the music of this doleful place ;
All pleasant birds their tunes from thence retire,

Where none but heavy notes have any grace.