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SWEET SUFFOLK OWL

THOMAS VAUTOR

WEET Suffolk owl, so trimly dight
With feathers, like a lady bright,
Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night,
Te whit, te whoo!

Thy note that forth so freely rolls,
With shrill command the mouse controls,

And sings a dirge for dying souls,
Te whit, te whoo!

SPRING

THOMAS NASH

PRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pee-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and May make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day;
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pee-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pee-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! the sweet Spring!

THE NOBLE NATURE

BEN JONSON

T is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make man better be;

Or standing long an oak three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere;
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that nightIt was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauty see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

A WISH

From THE GIPSIES METAMORPHOSED

BEN JONSON

HE fairy beam upon you,

THE

The stars to glisten on you;
A moon of light

In the noon of night,

Till the fire drake hath o'ergone you!
The wheel of fortune guide you,

The boy with the bow beside you

Run aye in the way,

Till the bird of day

And the luckier lot betide you!

S

CHARIS' TRIUMPH

From UNDERWOODS

BEN JONSON

EE the chariot at hand here of Love,

Wherein my Lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.

As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;

And enamoured do wish, so they might

But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!

Do but look on her hair, it is bright

As Love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;

And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life

All the gain, all the good of the element's strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow

Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver?
Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?
Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white,

O so soft, -O so sweet is she!

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