Songs of Three Centuries

"And tell them thus from me,
Their time most happy is,
If to their time they reason had,
To know the truth of this."

Poison is also put in medicine,

And unto man his health doth oft

renew.

The fire that all things eke consumeth clean,

May hurt and heal: then if that this be true,

I trust some time my harm may be my health,

Since every woe is joined with some wealth.

A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS
HE WOULD LOVE.

A FACE that should content me wondrous well,

Should not be fair, but lovely to behold With gladsome cheer, all grief for to expel;

With sober looks so would I that it should

Speak without words, such words as none can tell;

The tress also should be of crispéd gold. With wit and these, might chance I might be tied,

And knit again with knot that should not slide.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

[1564-1593.]

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS

Whereat I sighed, and said,

LOVE.

Farewell my wonted joy!

Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me, COME live with me, and be my love, To every little boy;

And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,
Wood or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs, —
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

THE PILGRIM.

GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon; My scrip of joy, immortal diet; My bottle of salvation;

My gown of glory (hope's true gauge),
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's 'balmer,
Whilst my soul, a quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven;
No other balm will there be given.
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains,
There will I kiss the bowl of bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill;
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
Then, by that happy, blissful day,

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh, like me.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand! Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant : Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the court it glows,

And shines like rotten wood; Go, tell the church it shows What's good, and doth no good: If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates they live

Acting by others' actions; Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by their factions: If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition That rule affairs of state,

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