All that I sung still to her praise did tend;
Still she was first, still she my songs did end;
Yet she my love
and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beautys sympathy:
Then let my notes pursue her
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,
And there arrived, a new admiràed guest,
spirits do engirt thee round,
White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
To hear the stories of thy finishd love
that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
tourneys and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beautys sake:
When thou hast
told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
OF Neptunes empire let us sing,
At whose command the waves obey;
To whom the rivers
Down the high mountains sliding:
To whom the scaly nation yields
Homage for the crystal fields
And every sea-god pays a gem
Yearly out of his watry cell
To deck great Neptunes diadem.
The Tritons dancing in a ring
Before his palace gates do make
The water with their echoes
Like the great thunder sounding:
The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill,
And the sirens, taught
With their sweet voice,
Make evry echoing rock reply
Unto their gentle murmuring noise
of Neptunes empery.
NOW winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups oerflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and
Sleeps leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures
are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
THE man of life upright,
Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of
The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
That man needs neither towers
Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly
He only can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the skies.
Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn
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