OF HIS MISTRESSE, WHOSE NAME WAS BAYES. IN bayes I boast, whose braunch I beare, That to the death I shall it weare, In heat, in cold, both night and day, When other fruits and flowers decay, Her berries feed the birdes full oft; For their swete savour's sake: The birdes do shroude them from the cold In her we daily see; And men make arbers as they would Under the pleasant tree. It doth me good when I repaire There as these bayes do grow ; Where oft I walk to take the air, But, lo! I stand as I were dumme, Her beauty for to blase, Wherewith my spirites be overcome, So long thereon I gase. At last I turne unto my walke, In passing to and fro, And to my selfe I smile and talk, Why smilest thou? say lookers on ; Fie, fie, for shame! sayth fansie then, And speak thou boldly, like a man, Whereat I blush and change my cheare, O God! think I, what make I here, I dare not sigh lest I be heard ; · And still I stand, as one were scar'd, Then happy hap doth me revive, The blood comes to my face; A merrier man is not alive Than I am in that case. Thus after sorrow seke I rest, When fled is fancies fit; And tho' I be a homely guest, Before the bayes I sit, Where I do watch till leaves do fall, When winde the tree doth shake; Then, tho' the branche be very small, And then I go and clap my handes, My heart doth leap for joy. These bayes do ease me from my bands For when I do behold the same, I find therein my mistress' name, THAT LENGTH OF TIME CONSUMETH ALL THINGS. WHAT harder is than stone? What more than water soft? Yet with soft water drops Hard stones be pierced oft. That stone may ne withstand? It holloweth hardest flint ; By proof whereof we see Time gives the hardest dint. JOHN HARRINGTON, THE ELDER. Born about 1534, died 1582. VERSES MADE ON ISABELLA MARKHAME, WHEN I FIRSTE WHENCE Comes my love, O hearte, disclose! The blushyng cheek speakes modest mynde, Why thus, my love, so kyndely speake Sweet lyppe, sweet eye, sweet blushynge cheeke, JOHN HARYNGTON TO ISABELLA MARKHAME, 1549. QUESTION. ALAS! I love you overwell, Myne owne sweete deere delygte! Yet, for respects, I feare to tell What moves my troubled spryghte; What workes my woe, what breedes my smarte, Reason restrayns me to emparte, Such perylls as I fynde. ANSWER. If present peryll reason fynde, And let the truthe be knowne. QUESTION. The wordes be sounde, the sounde ys sweete, Noe wyghte hathe worthe to yeeld meed meete |