MATTHEW ROYDON. - EDMUND SPENSER. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest | Did never muse inspire beneath bed; A chamber deaf to noise and blind to A poet's brain with finer store. He wrote of love with high conceit Such self-assurance need not fear the | The pledge of all your band? may The sacred ceremonies there partake, Behold whiles she before the altar stands, Like crimson dyed in grain, The more they on it stare; But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, Why blush ye, Love! to give to me your hand, Sing, ye sweet angels! Alleluia sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. UNA AND THE LION. ONE day, nigh weary of the irksome way, It fortunéd, out of the thickest wood, His bloody rage assuagéd with remorse, And, with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force. Instead thereof he kissed her weary feet, And licked her lily hands with fawning tongue, As he her wrongéd innocence did weet. O how can beauty master the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! Whose yielded pride and proud submis sion, Still dreading death, when she had marked long, Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion, And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. EDMUND SPENSER. THE HOUSE OF RICHES. THAT house's form within was rude and strong, Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift, From whose rough vault the ragged breaches hung Embossed with massy gold of glorious gift, And with rich metal loaded every rift, That heavy ruin they did seem to threat; And over them Arachne high did lift Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net, Enwrappéd in foul smoke and clouds more black than jet. Both roof, and floor, and walls, were all of gold, But overgrown with dust and old decay, And hid in darkness, that none could behold The hue thereof: for view of cheerful day Did never in that house itself display, But a faint shadow of uncertain light; Such as a lamp whose life does fade away; Or as the Moon, clothed with cloudy night, Does show to him that walks in fear and sad affright. In all that room was nothing to be seen But huge great iron chests, and coffers 9 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. [1560-1595.] CONTENT AND RICH. I DWELL in grace's courts, Faith guides my wit, love leads my will, In lowly vales I mount To pleasure's highest pitch, My conscience is my crown, Enough, I reckon wealth; That lies too high for base contempt, My wishes are but few, I make the limits of my power I have no hopes but one, I feel no care of coin, I clip high-climbing thoughts, Their fate is worst, that from the height Silk sails of largest size The storm doth soonest tear: I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear. I wrestle not with rage While fury's flame doth burn; It is in vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn. But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end, I turn a late-enragéd foe Into a quiet friend; And, taught with often proof, Spare diet is my fare, My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe That, pampered, would repine. I envy not their hap Whom favor doth advance: I take no pleasure in their pain That have less happy chance. To rise by others' fall I deem a losing gain: All states with others' ruins built To ruins run amain. No change of fortune's calms Can cast my comforts down: When fortune smiles, I smile to think How quickly she will frown; And when, in froward mood, ALEXANDER HUME. [About 1599.] A SUMMER'S DAY. THE time so tranquil is and clear, All trees and simples, great and small, No more they move or stir. The ships becalmed upon the seas, Hang up their sails to dry; The herds, beneath the leafy trees, Among the flowers they lie. |