FROM GAMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE.

DRINKING SONG.

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.
Tho' 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 nought desire.
No frost, no 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.
Back and side, &c.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life

Loveth well good ale to seek, 2 Full oft drinks she, till ye may see

The tears run down her cheek :
Then doth she troul to me the bowl,

Even as a malkworm should,
And saith, “ Sweetheart, I took my part

Of this jolly good ale and old,”
Back and side, &c.

John Sice
master of Erinity
V/,
Besirop

154

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 souls that have scoured bowls,

Or have them lustily troul'd, ..
God save the lives of them and their wives,

Whether they be young or old.
Back and side, &c.

(9)

GEORGE GASCOIGNE.
A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER.
I Langh sometimes with little lust;

So jest I oft, and feel no joye;
Mine ease is builded all on trust,

And yet mistrust breeds mine annoye.
I live and lack, I lack and have,
I have, and miss the thing I crave.
Then like the lark, that past the night

In heavy sleep with cares opprest,
Yet when she spies the pleasant light,

She sends sweet notes from out her breast:
So sing I now, because I think
How joys approach when sorrows shrink.
And as fair Philomene again

Can watch and sing when others sleep,
And taketh pleasure in her pain,

To wray the woe that makes her weep:
So sing I now, for to bewray
The loathsome life I lead alway.
The which to thee, dear wench, I write,
That know'st my mirth, but not my moan;
I pray God grant thee deep delight,

To live in joys when I am gone.
I cannot live; it will not be,
I die to think to part from thee.

THE DOLE OF DESPAIR, Written by a Lover disdainfully rejected, contrary to

former Promises.
I
Must alledge, and thou canst tell

How faithfully I vow'd to serve:
And how thou seem'dst to like me well;

And how thou saidst I did deserve
To be thy Lord, thy Knight, thy King,
And how much more I list not sing.

B?

And canst thou now, thou cruel one,
Condemn desert to deep despair?
Is all thy promise past and gone?
Is faith so fled into the air?
If that be so, what rests for me,
But thus, in song, to say to thee:
If Cressid's name were not so known,
And written wide on every wall;
If bruit of pride were not so blown
Upon Angelica withall;

For hault disdain, you might be she;
Or Cressid for inconstancy.

And in reward of thy desert,

I hope at last to see thee paid With deep repentance for thy part

Which thou hast now so lewdly play'd; Medoro, he must be thy make, Since thou Orlando dost forsake.

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

SONG.

BLOW, blow thou Winter-wind,

Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude:
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.

SONNET.

ON