And as kind Nature with calm diligence
Her own free virtue silently employs,
Whilst she, unheard, does ripening growth dispense,
So were her virtues busy without noise.

Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she tends,
The busy household waits no less on her;
By secret law, each to her beauty bends;
Though all her lowly mind to that prefer.

SIR W. DAVENANT (Gondibert).

299. THE LARK NOW LEAVES HIS WATERY NEST

THE lark now leaves his watery nest
And climbing shakes his dewy wings.
He takes this window for the East,

And to implore your light he sings-
Awake, awake! the morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake, awake! break through your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!

SIR W. DAVENANT.

300. THE FOLLY OF KNOWLEDGE
WHY did my parents send me to the schools,
That I with knowledge might enrich my mind,
Since the desire to know first made men fools,
And did corrupt the root of all mankind?

I know my body's of so frail a kind,

As force without, fevers within, can kill;
I know the heavenly nature of my mind,
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will.

I know my soul hath power to know all things,
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all;

I know I'm one of nature's little kings,

Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a pain, and but a span;
I know my sense is mocked in everything;
And, to conclude, I know myself a man,
Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing.

SIR J. DAVIES (The Immortality of the Soul).

301. WHEREVER GOD ERECTS A HOUSE OF PRAYER

WHEREVER God erects a house of prayer,
The Devil always builds a chapel there:
And 'twill be found upon examination
The latter has the largest congregation:
For ever since he first debauched the mind,
He made a perfect conquest of mankind.

D. DEFOE (The True-born Englishman).

302. ART THOU POOR, YET HAST THOU GOLDEN SLUMBERS?

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ?
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexèd ?
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexèd
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey nonny 'nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O sweet content!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

T. DEKKER (Patient Grissel).

303. COLD'S THE WIND

COLD's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed!
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind mate, to thee!

Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.

T. DEKKER (The Shoemaker's Holiday).

304. GOLDEN SLUMBERS KISS YOUR EYES
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you.
You are care, and care must keep

GOLDEN slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not
cry,

And I will sing a lullaby.

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

you.

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
T. DEKKER (Patient Grissel).

305. THE THAMES

THAMES! the most loved of all the Ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,

Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,

Like mortal life to meet eternity.

Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy, stream
My great example, as it is my theme!

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;
Strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full.

SIR J. DENHAM (Cooper's Hill).

306. A PASSION OF MY LORD OF ESSEX
HAPPY were he could finish forth his fate

In some unhaunted desert, most obscure
From all societies, from love and hate

Of worldly folk; then might he sleep secure ;
Then wake again, and ever give God praise,

Content with hips and haws and bramble-berry ;
In contemplation spending all his days,

And change of holy thoughts to make him merry ;
Where, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush,
Where harmless Robin dwells with gentle thrush.

ROBERT DEVEREUX, EARL OF ESSEX.

307. TOM BOWLING

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For Death has broached him to.

His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft;

Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many 's the time and oft!

But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He, who all commands,

Shall give, to call Life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands '.

Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom's life has doffed;

For though his body's under hatches,

His soul is gone aloft.

308. THE IVY GREEN

Он, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.

C. DIBDIN.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:

And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a stanch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings

To his friend the huge Oak Tree!

And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,

From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

C. DICKENS.

309. KEITH OF RAVELSTON

Do what thou canst for altera- Beyond time, place, and all