restraineth words,
But makes not thought to cease;
And he speaks best that hath the skill
When for to hold his peace.

Our wealth leaves us at death;
Our kinsmen at the grave;
But virtues of the mind unto
The heavens with us we have.
Wherefore, for virtue's sake,
I can be well content,
The sweetest time of all my life
To deem in thinking spent.

RICHARD EDWARDES

THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS

IN going to my naked bed as one that would have slept,
I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept;
She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest,
That would not cease, but cried still, in sucking at her breast.
She was full weary of her watch, and grieved with her child;
She rocked it and rated it, till that on her it smiled:
Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove
The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write,
In register for to remain, of such a worthy wight;
As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat,
Much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat.
And proved plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life,
Could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife:
Then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by God above,
The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright,
Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might;
When manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no place,
Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace,
And leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout,
That might before have lived in peace their time and nature out:
Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove,
The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt,
That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt;
Since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed,
And force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed;
So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun,
And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some:
Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove,
The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

I marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout,
To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about;
Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can
     smoothly smile,
And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile;
Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout,
Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out:
Thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove,
The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

SIR THOMAS WYATT

THE LOVER'S LUTE

BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound
Of this or that as liketh me;
For lack of wit the Lute is bound
To give such tunes as pleaseth me;
Though my songs be somewhat strange,
And speak such words as touch my change,
Blame not my Lute!

My Lute, alas! doth not offend,
Though that perforce he must agree
To sound such tunes as I intend
To sing to them that heareth me;
Then though my songs be somewhat plain,
And toucheth some that use to feign,
Blame not my Lute!

My Lute and strings may not deny,
But as I strike they must obey;
Break not them so wrongfully,
But wreak thyself some other way;
And though the songs which I indite
Do quit thy change with rightful spite,
Blame not my Lute!

Spite asketh spite, and changing change,
And falsed faith must needs be known;
The faults so great, the case so strange;
Of right it must abroad be blown:
Then since that by thine own desert
My songs do tell how true thou art,
Blame not my Lute!

Blame but thyself that hast misdone,
And well deserved to have blame;
Change thou thy way, so evil begone,
And then my Lute shall sound that same;
But if till then my fingers play,
By thy desert their wonted way,
Blame not my Lute!

Farewell! unknown; for though thou break
My strings in spite with great disdain,
Yet have I found out for thy sake,
Strings for to string my Lute again:
And if perchance this silly rhyme
Do make thee blush at any time,
Blame not my Lute!

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

COME live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd 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.

A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.

JOHN STILL

JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD

I CANNOT eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I not desire,
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold;
I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd
Of jolly good ale and old.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek.
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl
Even as a maltworm should,
And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.'

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to;
And all poor