"In days when our King Robert reigned, His breeches cost but half a crown; He said they were a groat too dear,

And ca'd the tailor thief and loun.
He was the king that wore the crown,
And thou the man of low degree:
It's pride puts a' the country down,
Sae take thy auld cloak about thee!"

"O Bell, my wife, why dost thou flout?
Now is now, and then was then.
Seek anywhere the world throughout,
Thou ken'st not clowns from gentle-

If thou wilt prove a good husband,

E'en take thy auld cloak about thee."

Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,
But she will rule me if she can:
And oft, to lead a quiet life,

I'm forced to yield, though I'm gude

man.

It's not for a man with a woman to threape

Unless he first give o'er the plea : As we began so will we leave, And I'll take my auld cloak about me.

UNKNOWN.

THE BARRING O' THE DOOR.

IT fell about the Martinmas time,
And a gay time it was than,
When our gudewife got puddings to
make,

And she boiled them in the pan.

The wind sae cauld blew east and north,
It blew into the floor:
Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife,
"Gae out and bar the door!"

"My hand is in my huswif's kap, Gudeman, as ye may see;

An' it should nae be barred this hundred year,

It's no be barred for me."

They made a paction 'tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure,
That the first word whae'er should speak
Should rise and bar the door.

Then by there came twa gentlemen
At twelve o'clock at night;
And they could neither see house nor
hall,

Nor coal nor candle light.

And first they ate the white puddings,
And then they ate the black;
Though muckle thought the gudewife to
hersel',

Yet ne'er a word she spak'.

Then said the one unto the other,

"Here, man, tak' ye my knife!

But I can let thee now alone,
As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou 'rt sweet; yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favors are but like the wind,

That kisses everything it meets; And since thou canst with more than one, Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none.

The morning rose that untouched stands Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells!

But plucked and strained through ruder hands,

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

[About 1640.]

GOOD-MORROW.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red breast;
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Black bird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.

SEARCH AFTER GOD.

But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

look higher.'

I asked the world's great universal mass If that God was;

mense,

Surpassing sense;

Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal,
Lord over all;

The only terrible, strong, just, and true, Who hath no end, and no beginning knew.

replied, As stupefied,

""I am not he, O man! for know that I By him on high

Was fashioned first of nothing; thus instated

And swayed by him by whom I was created.

grace, Thy glorious face

(So far forth as it may discovered be)
Methinks I see;

And though invisible and infinite,
To human sight

Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest,

In which, to our weak sense, thou comest nearest.

O, make us apt to seek and quick to find, Thou, God, most kind!

Give us love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust,

Thou, God, most just!

Remit all our offences, we entreat, Most good! most great! Grant that our willing, though unworthy quest through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest.

May,

HENRY KING.

[1591-1669.]

SIC VITA.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;

Stay for me there! I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrow breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night, when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.
Thus from the sun my vessel steers,
And my day's compass downward bears:
Nor labor I to stem the tide

Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

"T is true, with shame and grief I yield,
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field,
And gotten hast the victory,
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come:
And slow howe'er my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive
The crinie, I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet, and never part.

MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. [1612-1650.]

I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy:
For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a synod in my heart,
And never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone;
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

[1596-1666.]

DEATH THE LEVELLER.

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill;

But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late

They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds: