English Songs and Ballads Part 21

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But, being spent, the worse, and worst Time shall succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time, And while you may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

TWELFTH NIGHT, OR KING AND QUEEN

Now, now the mirth comes, With the cake full of plums, Where bean's the king of the sport here; Beside, we must know, The pea also Must revel as queen in the court here.

Begin then to choose, This night, as ye use, Who shall for the present delight here; Be a king by the lot, And who shall not Be Twelfth-day queen for the night here.

Which known, let us make Joy-sops with the cake; And let not a man then be seen here, Who unurged will not drink, To the base from the brink, A health to the king and the queen here.

Next crown the bowl full With gentle lamb's-wool; Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, With store of ale, too; And thus ye must do To make the wa.s.sail a swinger.

Give them to the king And queen wa.s.sailing; And though with ale ye be wet here; Yet part ye from hence, As free from offence, As when ye innocent met here.

THE BAG OF THE BEE

About the sweet bag of a bee, Two Cupids fell at odds; And whose the pretty prize should be, They vowed to ask the G.o.ds.

Which Venus hearing, thither came, And for their boldness stript them; And taking thence from each his flame, With rods of myrtle whipt them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries, When quiet grown she'ad seen them, She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes And gave the bag between them.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weatherproof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who hither come, and freely get Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall, And kitchen small; A little b.u.t.tery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent: And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wa.s.sail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That sows my land: All this, and better, dost Thou send Me for this end: That I should render for my part A thankful heart, Which, fired with incense, I resign As wholly Thine: But the acceptance--that must be, O Lord, by Thee.

TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew?

Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years, Or warped as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet?

Or brought a kiss From that sweet heart to this?

No, no; this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read-- 'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'

DELIGHT IN DISORDER

A sweet disorder in the dress [A happy kind of carelessness;]

A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction; An erring lace, which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribands that flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility; Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part.

CHERRY RIPE

Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones--come and buy; If so be you ask me where They do grow?--I answer: There, Where my Julia's lips do smile-- There's the land, or cherry-isle; Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.

VIRTUE

GEORGE HERBERT

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright The bridal of the earth and sky; The dews shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; 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; Thy music shows ye have your closes; And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.